#The idea that Damian might not actually be Bruce's son goes out the window the second Damian starts to scowl exactly like him

[wesavegotham]

Obviously I have no idea where Tom Taylor will be going with his Dark Knights of Steel elseworld, but the first book pushes the idea that Bruce, despite being a bastard (he's the illegitimate son of late Queen Martha and Jor-El in this) should inherit the throne one day since he's the only one related to the original monarchs of the kingdom, and I can't help but imagine Bruce sitting one the throne one day and he swears to himself to only sire "trueborn children" so no biologically related child of his would ever suffer from growing up as a bastard like he did...and then Damian is introduced to him.

[me4ml]

Why don't you like Maribat? Why do you think it's a spite or salt ship?

This is presumably because of my Adrigaminette post or the whole Maribat being on the ship list thing.

Quick disclaimer: if you read/ship/write/like Maribat, cool! This is not an attack. This is me answering why I, personally, do not like it. It’s tagged anti, and salt, so it should be filtered. Please don’t harass me over it.

Another note before we start: a lot of what I’m about to write is based on what I’ve read, fic wise or meta, and I blocked off the Maribat tag and fandom a long time ago. It may have changed over there-I doubt it, and I have zero desire to go and look-but this is based on what I’ve seen and read about.

There are, principally, three reasons I can’t stand Maribat, why I think it’s a spite/salt ship.

1). I don’t like Damian Wayne.

2). I don’t like how Damian and the DCU are written in Maribat.

3). Maribat is a mutated salt fic.

If you want to see my reasons why, the rest is under the read more.

1). I don’t like Damian Wayne.

Damian’s not just my least favorite Robin, ranking behind any of the others who have born the name. He’s my least favorite Batfam sidekick overall.

Part of this is his introduction, where he’s a violent, murderous, arrogant, entitled, snotty little brat of a thug. Lest we forget, one of his first acts is to go out, kill a guy, cut off his head, stuff a grenade into the decapitated head’s mouth, and try to blow up Tim. This is his introduction! There are a number of other occasions, including how he treats Jon, his best friend, and the rest of his siblings.

Another part is that he believes that he deserves to be Robin simply because he’s Bruce’s son, and therefore has the blood right to be Robin, to become Batman, and damn anyone else, who are all pretenders. Doesn’t matter that those characters might have a right to become Robin, or the future Batman, he’s the bio son, he deserves it!

Additionally, Damian feels.....not unnecessary, but repetitive, in his actions/characterization. There are other characters who can perform pretty much the same way for whatever storyline is necessary, without including Damian.

Trained by an abusive family to be the best, as an assassin and warrior? Cassandra.

A killer who breaks the main rule of his mentor, which causes tension and strain in the family? Jason.

Incredibly intelligent and talented? Tim.

Damian isn’t unique in what he does, and while that can make him an interesting character, it can also make the focus on him unnecessary.

As well, so much of Damian’s actions and motivations feels like he gets away with stuff, in-universe, because he’s Bruce’s biological son, and so Bruce gives him too much slack, and out-universe, because the writers let him/the fans will defend him. He gets woobified, or leather pantsed. Which leads to:

2). I don’t like how Damian and the DCU are written for Maribat.

For all his (numerous) faults, when written well, Damian can be an interesting character. For example: How does he deal with being deeply insecure? By putting on a mask of arrogance and overconfidence.

Some more examples: How does Damian act like an actual child, when he’s never had a childhood? How can he be a hero, if he’s been trained to be a killer? Can he ever catch up to his siblings, or will he feel like they’re always better than him?

Damian’s sense of being Batman’s son, of being the heir to the Cowl, slams right up against the idea of the Batfam: that there are people who have just as much of a right to call Batman their father/father figure, people who are just as talented and skilled and capable as Damian himself is, if not more. Watching Damian develop, when he’s written right, is actually enjoyable; mainly because when it’s done right, it shows Damian actually progressing and growing, becoming more of a person, with friends and interests. Most times, seeing Damian with his pets can be adorable, same with when he hangs out with Jon.

Is he still a brat? Still sometimes a bit too much of a Demon, an al-Ghul? Yes, but that’s always going to be part of him, and as long as he’s shown to try and grow, or gets called out on that, it’s less of an issue (There’s a completely different rant to be written about how DC likes to chuck character development or backstory into the trash when it suits them for a new run. Damian gets hit with this, as does Tim, or they get handed the idiot/conflict ball, but not the space for it).

Maribat hurls this all out the window. Damian’s bad traits are all “fixed” offscreen-he’s developed, matured, gotten better, whatever you want to call it. It’s basically a writer’s hand wave to make Damian into the character who will be the lead of the story, perfectly suited for his main role of being Marinette’s boyfriend and utterly devoted to her every whim and will. He’s enchanted by her at first glimpse, and defends her against everyone who hates her, because no one can understand her like he can!

Uh, what? This is not Damian Wayne. Even at his best, he’s no broody boy, pulled from his “dark path” by the love of a gentle girl. He’s a Jerk with a Heart of Gold-emphasis on the Jerk. There’s a reason his nickname usually involves “Demon.” Is Damian trying to get better? Yes. But even then, he’s not the type to immediately fall in love. He takes a while to warm up to people, for them to earn his trust, and Marinette would not be like that?

Let’s say that Robin is in Paris for a case, he runs into Ladybug and Chat, and after they explains what’s going on, Robin gives them a stare over his mask, and goes “TT! What a worthless hero, I would have caught him already.” LB and Chat would probably want to deck him, and that’s before he keeps talking.

Same with if Damian transfers to the class, or they meet on a field trip to Gotham. Damian’s not gonna care about some random French teenagers on a tour, or if he was transferred he’s gonna be trying to figure out why his father sent him to Paris, and be focused on the mission, not making friends.

Of all of the Robins, the ones that would be the most likely to capture Marinette’s interest would be Dick or Tim, not Damian. He would remind her too much of Chloe, as Damian, and as Robin, he would be dismissive of Ladybug’s abilities, which would absolutely piss her, and Chat Noir, off.

In characters that aren’t Damian, no one seems to be written properly over in Maribatland. One huge example is that Marinette is so beloved, so pure, that she can make any character fall in love with her, and reform by her pure goodness, including a fic where the Joker-THE JOKER!-becomes her “Uncle J,” and pranks Lila on her behalf.

Uh-huh. Sure. Completely and totally something that one of the biggest, most sadistic twisted, notorious villains in pop culture would do. Maribat winds up worshipping the ground that Marinette walks on, cause she’s “Teh best evar!”

Which then leads to my third and final point:

3). The whole Maribat concept is a mutated salt fic.

Most of the themes you’ll find in Maribat? You will find in nearly every salt fic.

Maybe my biggest issue with the whole Maribat idea is that it doesn’t feel like a proper crossover, which, at their best, explore how characters from one universe and their rules would interact with characters from another universe, and the rules of that one. Putting ML and DC together is a rich opportunity to play with concepts in both worlds!

And yet, it’s mainly used to bash ML characters who the writers despise, predominantly Adrien, Alya, and Lila, with members of the class thrown in depending on feeling, and potentially even Marinette’s parents! The only “good” ML characters are the ones who are on Marinette’s side, usually Luka, Kagami, a Chloe who for some reason has been redeemed and is now Marinette’s best friend, and whatever members of the class the writer decides to throw in there.

You’ll notice it’s not called “MiracuBat”, or LadyBat and Bat Noir-it’s MariBat. It’s meant as a focus on Marinette, making her-the hero of the Miraculous Ladybug franchise, someone in-story in story who is incredibly smart and talented and the leader of her team, future Guardian-even more awesome.....by beating down everyone else around her.

Marinette is simultaneously treated as an beaten-up, beaten-down walked-on carpet, and the best person to ever exist ever, go who only needs a group of new, different, better people to recognize that and save her from the clutches of those greedy and ungrateful assholes! That doesn’t include the fics where she’s the unknown child of a superhero or supervillain, making her even more special.

It’s Chameleon salt, class salt, with pointy ears and a cape on.

Some specific examples.

Adrien: Adrien is a spineless doormat who prioritizes Lila over Marinette, or an entitled bastard sexual harasser, only fixated on Ladybug, or even both. Sometimes it’ll get worse, as Adrien will threaten or abandon Marinette if she steps off of his “high road,” and Chat will be a budding rapist, stalking or capturing Marinette after he’s learned she’s Ladybug, while ignoring her prior to that. He will, of course, have his ring stripped and handed off to Damian, who is the “true” soul of Destruction and so therefore a “perfect match” to Marinette’s Creation soul. Occasionally it will be Jason, or Tim, or Dick, but the key thing is that it’s not Adrien!

While Damian’s issues are magically fixed, Adrien gets no such courtesy. Adrien has been abused, just like Damian, and while Damian’s abuse is more extensive and extreme, abuse is abuse. If anything, if Damian met Adrien, he would probably see another abused kid, and want to be his friend/have his “adopt stray person!” Instincts go off. I can much more imagine Damian dragging a bewildered Adrien into the Batcave and yelling “Father I’ve found another one for you to adopt!” than I can Damian immediately hating Adrien, or Chat, simply for breathing.

We never see Clark taking Adrien under his wing, or Bruce, or any of the other Batfam; nor any of the other Justice Leaguers. We never see Selina try to fight Bruce over the kid, because he’s cat-themed, and Selina can train him, this one’s hers Bat, get off!

Adrien’s never treated as a kid, or given actual development. A major complaint among salters is that Adrien is treated as perfect and never develops, and in fic, rather than developing him, Adrien either remains static, with his flaws narratively exploded, or is developed negatively. He’s there to be beaten up on and punished by the writers, if not actually physically beaten up by characters in the fic.

Alya: the not-so-good friend, the cheap excuse for a journalist, the awful person who abandons Marinette for Lila and her “connections.” Never mind that Alya was Marinette’s friend from the beginning, or that Marinette’s chosen her multiple times for a Miraculous. One instance of questioning Marinette about Lila, and Alya’s a backstabbing bitch.

Maribat treats Alya as neglectful, bossy, domineering and submissive at the same time to Marinette and Lila respectively, and as a journalist, the worst of the worst. She’s played as a two-bit paparazzo, and once again, the DCU is used to punish her. We don’t see Alya get mentored by Lois or Clark-indeed, if they notice her, it’s with disdain or disappointment. Often, they’re crushing her under their heel, calling her not only a bad journalist, but a bad friend/person. This forgetting, of course, that Alya runs her blog as a hobby so far, she’s only a teenager, and that she’s had Marinette’s back against Chloe and Lila.

The Class: the dupes or allies as needed. Class salt levels depend on what the writer needs. If they’re pro-class, they’re all on Marinette’s side, aside from Alya Adrien and Lila. Chloe, for some ungodly reason, is “redeemed” nigh instantaneously, and often will become Marinette’s best friend, if that isn’t Kagami already. Kagami will drop Adrien like a wet tissue, never trying to reconcile him with the clas, or encourage him to stand up for himself, or if she does, Adrien, of course, will not listen.

If the writer is anti-class, whoo boy. Openly mentally, emotionally, physically abusive to Marinette, the worst gang of people you would ever have the displeasure of meeting, they all need to be in Arkham.

We never see any of the class make friends with the Batfam, the Titans, Young Justice-unless they’re on Marinette’s side, of course. There’s no Alix stopping Selina at the Louvre, for instance, or Max hanging out with Babs. It’s all based on how Marinette is treated as to whether or not the class is portrayed as being worse than the worst of the Rogues Gallery.

Wrapping it all up, Maribat has made me dislike the entire concept of a DC/ML crossover.

Even if someone had written an non-salt, in-character crossover, I don’t know if I would read it, simply because the well has been that poisoned.

[samiralula01]

Jason Todd is the Anti-Batman

* A pointless rambling of the relationship and parallels between Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd.

Picture this opening scene: There are two boys in a dark alley.

One is dressed in an expensive suit with a tie his dead father helped him with only earlier that evening. His hands are stained red with the same blood now puddled on the grimy cement. His face is in shock.

The second boy is dressed in tattered jeans and hoodie. His hands are stained with tires grease and are clutching a tire iron. His face is in shock.

Decades later, there are two more scenes to consider.

A seriously injured man sits slumped over in his father’s study. Without warning, a bat crashes through the window, and everything falls into place. He now knows what he needs to do.

Elsewhere, an emotionally distraught teenager is curled up into a fetal position on a hotel room floor. Heart wrenching cries can be heard from him. But it is only momentary. He now knows what he needs to do.

These two individuals are Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd. While they are both broken and determined men, Batman is a hero. The Red Hood is not. He is the anti-Batman and this is why.

Two Boys in an Alleyway

Despite similarities in their stories’ early themes and elements, Bruce and Jason came to walk down very different paths. One of justice, and the other vengeance. Batman is determined to protect the innocent and Jason more so on punishing the guilty. Both their ideologies have intrinsic flaws, of course, and will naturally clash often. But this wasn’t always the case.

Before they became a father and son perpetually in mourning for who they once were and what could have been, Bruce and Jason were remarkably similar. The two are cut from the same cloth and Bruce knows this better than anyone else.

In the Dumpster Slasher three-part story line, (Batman #414, #421, #422) Bruce becomes emotional. Violent. He sits in the batcave alone that night and contemplates his emotions.

“Nearly blew it. I let it get too personal. Lost my detachment...nearly lost control. Almost beat Cutter to death. Wouldn’t have been any big loss.”

Only one issue later, at the end of this story arc, Robin is out on the streets and becomes angry when he happens upon a pimp is threatening a prostitute with a knife. Now, I want you to compare his line here to Bruce’s and note what Jim Gordon said to him as well.

Batman: "I think he’s had enough, Robin. What were you trying to do, kill him?" Robin (Jason): “Would it’ve been that big of a loss if I had?”

It is important to note here that Batman is not worried or upset just because Jason roughs up a pimp. That would be hypocritical considering his own earlier actions. If anything, it’s because one of the main reasons Batman even takes in these kids, these ‘robins,’ is because he doesn’t want them to be like him.

And Jason was acting just like him.

Jason can and has screwed up and failed due to his own actions, but it was never the reason Batman became upset with him. His reactions in the comics when Jason does things like running ahead and ‘jumping the gun,’ are more like this:

He either makes a teaching moment out of it or is attempts to understand Jason’s reasons in doing any such thing. When Bruce does become harsh in his discipline, it’s either when he feels as though Jason has endangered his own life or as I said, he acts too much like him.

While there are quite a few more similarities between Bruce and Jason that makes them alike, such as both being introverted and interested in obtaining all sorts of knowledge that they might not even feel is relevant, they are both, at the core of their characters, deeply caring and compassionate people.

The differences only start to show with how they act on it.

The Not-So Dynamic Duo?

“What happened to you as a child, the terror, the pain, the horrors (...) you were broken, and I thought I could put the pieces back together. I thought I could do for you what could never be done for me. Make you whole.”

Hot take. Jason Todd is a villain and is best written as a villain. 

Not in that campy way like he’s written during Dick and Damian’s Batman and Robin run while wearing that stupid pill-headed hood, (although, I grant he has a few lines that are enjoyable to read) but in all his serious, vengeful and downright brutal motives. 

The Red Hood is the perfect Batman villain because he’s so different from what the widely perceived perfect foil to the controlled and disciplined Bat is...the Joker. 

The Red Hood was vengeance at its purest. It is justice without being tempered by mercy. It is the rage of victims who were forgotten to become statistics. While other vigilantes wait for a cure, hope for rehabilitation, and pretend their system works, the Red Hood is a man of no such faith.

And this makes him a villain. And a damn good one.

During the Red Hood’s time as a crime lord in Gotham, he goes around blowing up buildings. He throws grenades into trucks. He mows down his competition with gunfire. Batman comes upon the bloodied hanged corpse of a man he was finished interrogating. 

But what is so compelling about this all is that before all the murder, all the guns and explosions, Jason Todd was a very different little boy. And all the great and memorable villains start that way.

The Joker is not someone you’re meant to sympathize with or even understand. In fact, I find him more terrifying because he’s unknown. He has no backstory (unless you want to believe the one he gave in Killing Joke, but the clown has a new story for every face he meets) and seemingly does what he does for a laugh of all things.

Jason Todd is in pain. He’s traumatized. Betrayed. Buried. Replaced. He is no one’s son because his father abandoned him.

Once upon a time, Jason Todd was a boy who saved himself. One of the biggest lies that Batman himself perpetuates is that he saved Jason from a life of crime. He tells Alfred that Jason was always dangerous. Bruce simply took him off the streets before he could be any worse.

But I don’t believe that’s true.

Jason grew up surrounded by crime, poverty, substance abuse and yet this amazing kid saved himself everyday by making a conscious choice to be kind and care about school, care about keeping his mother alive for over a year when he was just a child himself. That amazing kid was magic. 

Jason Todd as Robin was magic.

“Jason smiles. A bright smile. The kind Robin, the Boy Wonder should have.”

A good portion of his character’s assassination was in order to push the Tim is the perfect Robin idea. It was editorial decisions. The same ‘suits’ who insisted that Tim Drake be the Robin in the New Adventures cartoon despite having Jason’s backstory and personality. But I digress on that. 

Jason Todd was an introverted, studious, and emphatic person. He wanted to make friends with other kids his age even though he was a loner at heart. He joined the school baseball team and was a class officer, even if his training kept him from most social interactions.

He was also very much in tune with non-verbal cues and small changes in the environment around him. He was a thoughtful person who could be found admiring the stars or passing by scenery. When he teams up with the New Teen Titans, we get to see these aspects of his personality:

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful before. We’re actually riding above the clouds.”

“Every so often, I notice you become awfully agitated...like something was going on you didn’t want to be part of. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

It didn’t take Bruce long to fall in love with this boy and ask to legally adopt him. He found him to be smart, thoughtful, quick at learning and funny as hell. Their first meeting opens with Batman laughing in the very same alley his heart was ripped out decades earlier. 

Even in the Rebirth canon, (RHATO #48) we see that Bruce is already set on taking in Jason while he’s still with Ma Gunn’s school. He likes this kid. A lot.

“Butler, actually. You’ll meet him someday, I’m sure.”

Jason Todd was happy. Most of the time. Unfortunately, he still wrestled with depression and would sleep all day on occasion and could be found crying hidden away on his own, withdrawn from the concerned Bruce and Alfred.

In A Death in the Family, Alfred and Bruce sit down and discuss Jason’s worsening mental health, particularly after the Diplomat’s Son where Jason becomes witness to sexual assault, suicide and the failings of both Batman and the GCPD to protect innocent people. Barbara, his tutor, someone he cared about and got along with, is also shot a few months earlier.

Bruce thinks Jason has become suicidal. Alfred does not disagree with this theory and supplements it with things he’s observed himself about the ‘lad.’

“I’ve come upon him, several times, looking at that battered old photograph of his mother and father, crying. When he’s seen me, he’s hidden the picture and left the room, refusing to talk.”

It is then that Jason discovers the truth about his mother at the worst possible time, when he’s not even thinking straight, and thus leads way to the tragedy that will be his murder at the hand’s of the Joker.

The Curse of Jason Todd

“Do you have any idea what you have done?! Do you? You have no inkling of what you’ve created -- what you have unleashed! You have set free a curse upon this world!”

Red Hood: Lost Days, which depicts Jason’s dark post-resurrection origin, opens with Ra’s al Ghul bellowing this line, the steam from the Lazarus Pit still rising off of him. 

I’m not going to analyze this line, I’m just using it to supplement a point of mine I hope I’m getting through well enough. The Red Hood is a compelling, tragic villain. He is similar to Batman in ways that Bruce always knew and may have even feared because of how intimately he knows his own deepest, darkest thoughts. Jason is the perfect foil as an antagonist for him because of what he represents to Bruce.

And it’s not his anger, or his rage, or even his brutality. 

It’s his compassion. His caring. His emotions. And how they can open up the worst parts of themselves. 

Both are motivated by preventing whatever trauma happened to them from ever happening to anyone else. They both trained for years with this motivation. And they’ve both acted out on the very person who inflicted their trauma onto them.

Here’s where their paths start to differ, however, and what separates them with a line of morality.

They both get angry. They both care so damn much. About Gotham, about innocents, about each other. They both get too emotionally invested and deal with consequences related to that. To manage with that, Bruce shuts down. He creates all these choices, rules and symbols. He uses every ounce of his self control to keep them. 

Bruce Wayne is not a good person. He forces himself to be with discipline and will. He chooses to be a good man and constantly pushes himself to live up to that. Because it’d be too damn easy to be just like the Red Hood.

Jason doesn’t understand that. Because no matter what Bruce had done or will do, he doesn’t hate him. He can’t. Despite his denial of the fact to different people, he still thinks of Bruce as his father. This great figure that so many others revere and are even intimidated by.

He’s not the only bat-kid to think of Bruce in this light despite the fact that the man is not. It took Dick years to overcome that perception. Tim only just started to begin understanding this true nature after his own father was murdered. 

But even if he did understand his (once)father, he still became the complete opposite of him despite so many early parallels. He doesn’t hold back his words and emotions, he doesn’t go into a state of controlled dissociation or emotional disengagement.

Jason Todd—the Red Hood—is Batman without all his rules and control. In a way, he’s what the darkest part of Batman himself wants to be. Jason does what Batman can’t do when it’s needed.

Because in Batman’s book, life beats out justice. Even if he could take down abusers and murderers, he won’t. He will choose saving and protecting lives over the apprehension of killers...he always does.

Batman is justice. Red Hood is vengeance.

Jason is a victim’s fantasy. He punishes and kills the guilty. Something Batman won’t do.

He is the anti-Batman for better or for worse.

[codenamed-queenie]

Batman Movie Idea

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Matt Reeves movie, and how we might actually finally get a Robin on the big screen (I don’t know Batman and Robin(1997), who’s she?). 

At first, I was thinking it would be amazing to get Tim Drake. I think we can all agree that he’s the least represented of the Batbros in the media, and seeing him debut in the DCEU along Battinson would be epic, to say the least.

But then I got to thinking--you know who we see even less of? You know who’s got just as much (if not more) quipping power as Dick Grayson? And a dubious, unprivileged past like Jason Todd? And the desperate need to prove themselves like Damian Wayne? That’s right, ladies and gentleman, I’m talking about--

--Stephanie Brown.

In the comics, Batman is just as reluctant to have a female Robin at his side as I’m sure a lot of rabid fanboys are to see one up on screen. (And that’s reason enough, honestly, but I’m not done)

But can you imagine? A Stephanie Brown origin story that doesn’t revolve around Tim Drake?

Picture this:

The movie opens with Batman going about his business--crushing it in the board room by day, and kicking butt by night. He’s tired, and lonely, and thinking about his other partner(s), who left. (Setting up that Nightwing movie people keep talking about, and possibly allowing for Jason and/or Tim to come in)

Alfred can tell Bruce is struggling, and continues to hound him about maybe possibly considering dating around? Maybe getting a dog? Just so that he’s not so alone. Bruce shrugs off all of these with the ‘No, I’m Batman, I’ll work and live and die alone, justice not happiness’ schpeel we all know and recognize. 

But then one night, he’s out on patrol. And he comes across another person fighting crime in a cape:

Spoiler. 

She’s in a laughably cheap homemade costume, and is basically just a tiny little five-foot-nothing child. A kid who saw superheroes on the news and decided ‘hey, looks like I’ve found my calling in life’. But even so, she’s...doing a decent job? She seems to know what she’s doing, but Batman swoops in and tells her to beat it. 

And Stephanie, our stubborn Stephanie, says ‘screw that’ and stealthily follows him home. 

Bruce goes about his everyday business, crushing it in the board room and handling CEOmanship like a Boss. But when he comes home, Alfred is missing and the secret door to his cave is hanging wide open. 

So he makes his way down, and stops short to see Stephanie Brown with her feet on his desktop, eating a plain Eggo waffle and watching anime on the computer’s giant monitors. She wheels around slowly, like a supervillain reveal but with more waffles and less ‘actual threat’.

Alfred is tied up nearby and is giving Bruce a Look.

And Stephanie’s all, ‘Hey, Bats, I followed you to your secret lair. Toldja I knew what I was doing. Anyway, I raided your fridge, but I caught this intruder for you, so I guess we’re even?’ 

Bruce meanwhile is doing his Best not to have an aneurysm. 

He tries to convince her to hang up her cape, but after a lengthy argument and a lot of shouting down, Steph manages to wrangle a deal out of Bruce. Three weeks. If she can prove to him that she’s strong enough to fight on her own in three weeks, he’ll let her do the Spoiler thing without interference. 

Bruce has his own conditions, though. He has to keep an eye on her and make sure she’s keeping to their agreement. So she’ll do it wearing the Robin uniform, or not at all.

He and Alfred head upstairs, and Steph stews in her chair, proving that its totally possible to eat a waffle ‘angrily’. 

The first night on patrol doesn’t go as planned. Steph’s in Dick’s old uniform, and it doesn’t fit. She’s trying her hardest, but it seems like Bruce is out to let her fail. (Not because he’s malicious, but because he wants her to understand just how dangerous this life is, and he doesn’t want her to choose it.) They return at the end of the night battered and exhausted. Steph flops down and Bruce asks her ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this? I won’t blame you if you don’t’ for the millionth time. Steph tells him to eff off. 

As soon as he does just that, she takes off, still wearing the Robin suit. She climbs to the top of a building and looks out at the city. Then bursts into tears. 

Unbeknownst to her, someone else just stopped into Gotham to see some old friends and brush up with their old mentor to get his help on a tricky case. Someone who happened to be swinging around nearby.

Enter, Nightwing, stage left. 

He demands to know why there’s someone else wearing the uniform--and his uniform, to boot. At first, he’s confrontational and defensive, remembering what happened to Jason or/and Tim.

But then Steph explains that the Robin schtick is just so she can be Spoiler. All she wants is to stop people like her dad. Do some good.

And about five minutes into the argument, Dick melts. 

He goes into full-on Big Brother mode. Trains her behind Bruce’s back (cue epic training montages with acrobatic flips and so forth) and offers to get her a better costume, and be her real mentor. 

(The latter offer is one that Steph declines. She can handle the vigilante thing just fine on her own, thank you very much.)

Still, Steph spends her days with Dick--learning and hanging out, and doing the whole Sibling Thing (bonus points if Babs or Tim, or especially Cass make cameos) and spends her nights with Bruce. Who, though not for lack of trying, continuously fails to throw Steph off her game.

(Keep in mind that all of this is going on between the lines of the actual story--which of course has to be Bats looking into his own case. This is the Batman movie, after all, not a Robin movie. Sadly.)

But then Bruce cracks his case, and lands right into a trap set by the Main Baddie (tbd, but wouldn’t it be great if we got Cluemaster as a side-villain?), leaving it up to Robin and Nightwing to come to his rescue. (Bonus points if those aforementioned cameos suit up and join in).

After the boss fight ends and the dust settles, Batman nods and says something along the lines of “So Nightwing’s been training you. No wonder you improved so much.”

And Dick just shakes his head. “Are you kidding me? I barely had to do anything. We mostly hung out and talked. She’s a great sparring partner, though, B. You should give her more credit.”

Everyone turns on Steph. “Then how do you know what you’re doing?”

And she’s all “You’re kidding, right? My dad’s the Cluemaster. I’ve been training for this since I was seven years old.”

“Ohhhh. So your dad taught you to fight.”

“My dad didn’t teach me anything, guys. I saw what he was doing, and I saw the people who were getting hurt, and I decided to do something about it. Took a little inspiration from the flying Bat I saw outside my window at night, and made my own moniker.” 

Dick laughs. “Looks like you’re a role model, B.”

“Nah, not him.’ Stephanie smirks. “I’m talking about Batgirl.”

So in the end, Bruce lets Steph keep Spoiler, and gives her a new-and-improved suit as an apology. The Robin mantle sits empty, but everybody agrees that its for the best. Maybe someday, it’ll be used again, but for now, there’s enough capes in Gotham.

For now, they’ve got a city to run.

(cue end credit scene)

A little boy in a lavish room is watching TV on a luxurious bed. He’s transfixed by the image of Batman and Robin fighting side by side on the news. 

The screen turns off, and his mother stands in the doorway, remote outstretched. A disapproving frown marks her face. 

“And just what do you think you’re doing, habibi?”

The little boy sits up straight and says, “Is it true? He’s found another?”

The woman tsks and strides across the room. Deftly tucking her son into bed, and smoothing the sheets around him, she explains that, no, the girl has chosen not to be Robin. Their plans are still on track, so there isn’t cause for worry. 

The boy nestles into the pillow, but looks up at the ceiling. “Do you think he will recognize me? When the time comes?”

The woman, Talia Al Ghul, leans in and presses a gentle kiss to her son’s forehead. “Oh, habibi,” she whispers. 

“A father always knows his son.”

The camera pans up, following the boy’s gaze to the ceiling, where mosaics of bat-winged creatures fly in circles. 

[lumikinetic]

It's me, back with another DC Headcanon

This time, imagine an AU where, when all the heroes and villains are old, they retire and go legit but in their respective fields. If people aren’t on here, I either couldn’t think of something for them or I don’t like them.

Batman: Bruce uses Wayne Enterprises to open a whole bunch of stuff he used to become Batman. Opens a gym, yoga and meditation classes, funds criminology, psychology and chemistry courses at Gotham U, everything.

Nightwing: With funding from Bruce, he opens an acrobatics class and all the new students flip their shit at this like 70 year old man swinging from a trapeze 50 feet up with the grace of a swan and balance of a flamingo.

Oracle: I’m not really sure what Barbara would do once she’s retired to be honest, there’s so much. I quite like the idea of her being a college professor who teaches Sociology, but I think she might also teach martial arts for girls of all ages, perhaps co-run with Dinah. Or maybe join the GCPD where she eventually works her way up to Commissioner. One of those, I like college professor the most.

Red Hood: Jason, on his own, opens a gun store but with Bruce Funding, also purchases and renovates Ma Gunn’s Home For Wayward Boys. He’s also a part-time public speaker who goes around elementary schools giving lectures on gun violence.

Red Robin: Franchises with Starbucks then uses the money to open his own coffee shop and also a mattress store. DC, I’m begging you, let my trash son sleep, he needs it.

Spoiler: Stephanie starts her own fashion line called Purple Rain (yes, like the Prince song). It sells a bit of everything but the main focus is fitness clothing.

Robin: Obviously Damian opens a zoo. Did you expect anything less?

Black Bat: So I’m imagining all the Batkids are in their late 50s to early 70s so I think by this point Cassandra would have learned a few languages and she teaches kids all over the world how to speak as well as opening ballet classes in Gotham.

Signal: I don’t know a whole lot about Duke but I think he would have become a stand-up comedian, I could see him on a bar stage, telling just absolute brilliant jokes. And like, he'd reveal his identity to the public and just tell hilarious stories about working with the Batfamily

Catwoman: She'd sell all the jewellery she's stolen over the years and use the money to buy a beachfront mansion, and live out the rest of her days under the sun. Imagine John Mulaney pointing at Selina's retired life and going "this is the height of luxury!"

Alfred: I should like to think Alfred bought a plot of land and turned it into a park. It's got a big hill and he put a bench on top of it and he sat there twice a day - once to watch the sunrise and once to watch the sunset. Poison Ivy visited him sometimes and they talked about tending to plants. Alfred managed to live to 102 before passing away peacefully in his sleep.

Batwoman: Kate and Bruce were one of the last ones to retire from hero work before passing their mantles to younger generations. When she settled down, similar to Bruce, she used her wealth to open various chains and stuff, but instead of things people could use to become the next Batwoman, her franchises were more leisure focused. A string of gay nightclubs, restaurants, clothing stores where she sells Stephanie’s fashion line, things like that.

Huntress: I don’t know what Helena would do. Something religious based would be an obvious choice but I feel like she could do more. Open a restaurant maybe?

Julia: Julia moves back to London and opens a bat-themed bar.

Joker: The realisation kind of dawns on him that the end is fast approaching as he sees Batman and his kids get older and older, and it offers him just a touch of clarity. He lives the rest of his years killing Nazis as a sort of atonement and he dies in his 90s alone, but not quite as unloved as he would have been 60 years ago.

Scarecrow: Jonathan changes his identity and gets plastic surgery, taking up a professor position teaching psychology.

Bane: Bane opens up a gym and you bet he is absolutely a White Goodman type character. “Motivating” all his patrons through yelling at them via video on TVs all over the place.

Poison Ivy: Well of course she opens a flower shop! She builds a reputation as “nice old plant lady down the street” and everyone knows she’s the BEST for wedding flower arrangements. Occasionally she’ll give a tulip or a bluebell to a little girl who came into the shop that day.

Harley Quinn: Harley opens a kids’ party store right across the street from Ivy’s flower shop, and she’s just an absolute joy with the children, if a little inappropriate at times. They smile at each other through their shop windows from time to time.

Deathstroke and Deadshot: Open a military store together where all new recruits can buy basic supplies such as apparel, equipment, sewing kits (for the badges) and stuff. Deathstroke also runs a support group for vets and a advice group for rookies.

Ravager: Rose gets a job as a bartender at one of Kate’s nightclubs, eventually ending up running the place.

Riddler: Opens a store that sells all kinds on brain trivia stuff. Scrabble, Sudoku notepads, math books and equipment for school, puzzle based videogames, just everything.

Mr. Freeze, Captain Cold and Killer Frost: They buy Ace Chemicals, clean it out, clear everything, renovate it, get new equipment and turn it into an ice cream factory.

Superman and Lois: I think it’d be nice if they open a bookstore/coffee shop together.

Supergirl: I’m super into the idea that Kara is a fucking amazing cook and she comes onto the culinary scene and she does n o t stop. She’s always coming up with these crazy dishes and she actually has two houses, one where she lives and one that is basically just a kitchen where she experiments with food.

Superboy: Comic artist. You can’t change my mind.

Green Arrow: Archery store.

Black Canary: Record store.

Hawkman and Hawkgirl: They’d open a store that sells flight supplies. Parachutes, paragliders, hang gliders, hot air balloon rentals, stuff like that.

Aquaman: Water park

Aqualad: Kaldur would open a recreation centre for LGBT youths who are treated poorly in their home, so they have a place to stay for a little while at least. He’s joined with Jason’s orphanage so that he can call the police on the kids’ parents and give them a place to stay.

Starfire: Beach resort hotel

Condiment King: Diner

Wonder Woman: It’s always been a favourite headcanon of mine that Diana is secretly a MASSIVE nerd, and she opens a Forbidden Planet/D&D/LARPing store, and she takes it sooooo seriously. She crafts all the cosplay weapons herself and recommends good starter campaign books for tabletop games and she makes custom dice, gives GM tips, and holds and participates in various D&D nights for all the new heroes who are fighting crime these days (she is absolutely a gnome druid, fight me) and it’s the best.

Artemis: She also opens a bookstore, but it is specifically aimed at Egyptian and Greek mythology. Her usual patrons are college kids with their History and Ancient Civilisations papers, and when parents come in with their little kids, she tells stories about the gods and she absolutely relishes that little twinkle in their eyes.

Maggie Sawyer: After retiring as Commissioner, she trains the new police recruits. Every time new recruits come in at least 3 go, “heyyyyy, aren’t you married to that Kane lady?”

Every time.

That’s the best I can do. Tack on any more you can think of.

[victoriousscarf]

For the impression meme : Dick Grayson; Damian Wayne

(I tried to insert this picture later in the post but honestly it makes such a good header for me babbling about Dick so I’m leaving it where it is even tho this was an ACCIDENT) 

Dick Grayson:

First impressionLike, I know I watched the old animated Bats show and watched the movies etc so probably the first real time I went “Dick Grayson is a character” was the Val Kilmer movie which like, kill me. 

But honestly the first time reading comics I remember sitting up and going oh this is a character, this is a person and I’m SO INTERESTED was reading Hush (again, good/terrible comic to read early) which means Jim Lee’s beautiful art (I may disagree with 90% of anything that man says or does and would like him to retire from DC as editor but man I can admit he draws so PRETTY) 

Yeah like that panel. And his snark about maybe this time the Joker won’t break out from Arkham for at least a month this time. 

And I was like yeah okay. This is good. Let me go add Nightwing comics to my massive library request list (All the librarians knew my name pretty fast okay)

Impression now

My FAVORITE. Like no I’m serious, he’s right up there with Luke Skywalker as all time favorite characters. And also this is why I’m so damned picky with him as a character because at his core, I think he’s an inherently optimistic character, not because he’s naive or stupid or sheltered, because he’s not. But despite the terrible things that have happened to him, and in fact despite his own nature (his temper, his distrust, his workaholic tendencies) and despite the terrible things that have happened to him over and over and over again, he still makes the conscious CHOICE to believe in goodness, in kindness and compassion, in the world being a better place. (And honestly he’s a lot like Luke “I am a Jedi like my Father Before me” Skywalker in this way). He’s still flawed, as I said he has such a temper, and is about as distrustful of people as Bruce is. But he can BUILD trust with people (unlike Bruce for like the majority of people) and everyone loves him for it. The superhero community trusts him in ways they don’t trust Bruce Wayne (which is fair considering how often Bruce like causes destruction simply due to his own massive trust issues, like the Tower of Babylon and Brother Eye). And yeah okay he’s my favorite, but there’s also this view of Dick in fandom and even the more recent writers that strips a lot of this complexity and shrewdness and leadership from him. And so like in current pre-Rebirth (I’ve been waiting for rebirth to settle a lot more than venturing in there) my impression is not great. And i dread what’s coming both there and in larger media. Favorite momentAh damn like where would I even start.

Like it’s sad that in some ways my favorite moment dealing with him ever actually doesn’t even feature him in it, and it’s Bruce talked with Earth 2 Superman and Supes saying that their world was so corrupt, so dark, so tainted compared to his and he couldn’t understand why this world survived when his own had been destroyed when it was much gooder and Bruce looks at him and you can tell he’s wondering that too and then he goes okay but what about Dick Grayson and Supes sorta goes eh? and Bruce is like if everything is so much worse here, is Dick Grayson tainted and corrupted compared to yours? And Earth 2 Superman says no, no he’s still good, and Bats goes great and fights him. You get the implication that if that hadn’t been the answer, Bruce might have been as willing to give up on this world as that Supes but no, Dick still was the same shining bright light, still such goodness in a dark world and that made the whole world worth fighting for. LIKE KILL ME. Kill me. 

And honestly I still love Dick being so good that even when all the other teen titans were down and Slade Wilson charges into his apartment even out of costume and with no warning Dick manages to jump out his window and escape where the element of surprise pretty much took down the rest of the team. That’s a classic. 

Idea for a story

I’m a sucker for aus, especially aus where the DCU is more or less the same expect Bruce didn’t raise Dick. There was one scan I found where an alternate Dick was raised by Zucco and honestly that haunts me to this day. Or a novel length exposition of the time he was a vampire hunter and Batman was a vampire who killed his parents and it ends with them being together in the night… forever. LIKE THESE ARE CANON AUS give me more of that weirdness. (A lot of Batman elseworld stories that are canon sorta downplay Dick and what I’m saying is don’t. Upplay him like crazy and how he effects Bruce at ever turn, in every world, how all the Robins exist with him through time)Unpopular opinionI hate him and Barbara. I mean, with caveats but I can’t ship it. Partly because I really got into comics around the time of Infinite Crisis, so when Barbara was blaming him for being sexually assaulted, (And there’s a lot of baggage in there because the author at the time was refusing to acknowledge it was rape so like there’s no way to deal with the aftermath of that if you’re not even saying it happened) he cheated on her (what) and I’m pretty sure they were engaged just in time for shit to totally blow up. And then we fast forwarded to one year later and like this stuff didn’t really come up or get worked through? But yeah it was just a period where i found them really messed up and unhappy with how it was written and all the new 52 stuff makes me want to scream and possibly tear my hair out.

Like okay the one time I really liked them was like in the 70s during Batman Family where like she has a phd and was at a congressional hearing and Dick came along as her assistant? Like, that was fun and cute and I really liked their dynamic. Modern comics? Not so much. Favorite relationship…. Yeah Dick and Bruce man. I’m reading this not as a romantic relationship but in GENERAL of any relationships ever nothing has driven my love for DC quite like Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson and their clusterfuck of emotions about each other, the fact that no matter how or in what manner, they are fucked up in love with each other and it is incredibly destructive to both of them. They can’t like settle down and just care, because of who they are they’re constantly butting into and hurting each other and yet at the end of the day they are still the most important to each other. Favorite headcanonDick is demi sexual fight me. 

Damian Wayne

First impression

Okay I read Batman and Son like when it first came out in trade, having NO CLUE who Damian was gonna be, or how his arc was gonna play out so like my first memory is him kicking Tim through the fucking cases and going WHAT IS THIS. Like, I was pretty peeved when he showed up. I was like ugh, of course Bruce having a biological son had to happen sometime and yeah Talia, because Son of the Demon but uuuugh. That was to change. Impression nowHe is precious and must be protected, 11/10Favorite momentI mean, there’s a lot. But one panel that always sorta stood out to me was the time that Hush got plastic surgery to look like Bruce Wayne and confronted Dick and Damian like that. And there’s just this panel of Damian, barely coming up halfway Dick’s chest, putting himself between Dick and Hush like hell yes I will take you on, how dare you. And how protective of Dick it was, even though Dick was Batman and he was Robin, that didn’t even matter. 

So yeah that one panel stands out because it encompasses so much but I also love every time he loves an animal more than most humans. Idea for a storyIdk, I really like future Batman Damian again, as Morrison introduced him a couple times, including in Multiversity. I’d really be interested in the downright apocalyptic future he becomes Batman in and how the batfam backs him up, and how he creates his own because as much as his father, he cannot really work totally alone.  

Alternatively he and Billy Baston go on a series of misadventures and it’s as terrible as that sounds like it should be but also GREAT

Unpopular opinion… It’s really funny I can instantly pin down things I disagree with fandom on with Dick Grayson but so rarely with other characters. Idk? I love him? 

I guess a thing I’ve seen a lot is people not really exploring how he will change as he gets older and just sorta transpose how he is currently on his future self and obviously he’s going to grow up a lot and change and I don’t see that coming up a lot whereas I’m like super excited to see him grow up/explore him grown up in fics. Favorite relationship*Sigh* Well obviously Dick and Damian. I mean, again, this doesn’t even have to run romantically, I just loved their dynamic under Morrison. I loved the switch of Batman and Robin where Dick, who was the brightest Robin became the dark knight, with a little nugget of rage as his Robin. I still love that comics cares about them together but I feel like a lot of their later interactions misses the edge Morrison gave them. Favorite headcanon

Him and Connor Hawke hang out a lot and go to vegetarian restaurants and bookstores together and have very philosophical conversations about religion and art and literature and faith and how they view being heroes (and Damian coping with his past vs Connor growing up in a monastery) and what their fathers mean to them. 

Damian is very protective of Connor is what I’m saying, he’s the only intelligent conversation he gets sometimes. (Sometimes, way down the road, Jason joins them for bookstore excursions, looking for first editions to send Alfred and Damian is sorta pissy but he’s grown, he can handle this) 

[lusilly]

i wrote 6k of this and i’m so exhausted i don’t want to finish and also it somehow doesn’t read well anymore so here have a Hands incident with damian cuz i’ve been thinking abt it so much with the rp buddies

           Bruce was lunching with Lucius Fox when his phone rang. He apologized, saw that it was Alfred calling on the non-emergency line, and then silenced the phone and put it away; Alfred would’ve scolded him for picking up during lunch with a friend and business partner in any case.

           Once Bruce bid Lucius farewell, fielding the not-so-subtle concerns about a certain Jason Todd’s involvement with Lucius’s daughter Tam as graciously as he could, Bruce opened his phone and saw a voicemail notification waiting for him. On his way back to his office, he listened to Alfred explain quite calmly that neither he nor Damian would be home for another hour or so, and so, assuming Bruce went home after lunch, if he could please keep himself from panicking because everything is perfectly under control, that would be best.

           Halfway up the elevator Bruce swiped his keycard to reroute it to the garage beneath the building, dialing Alfred back as he did so.

           “Master Bruce,” said Alfred, in lieu of a greeting. “I take it you received my message.”

           “Where are you and Damian?”

           “Oh, somewhere or other. A walk at the park, perhaps, or volunteering at the local community shelter.”

           “You wouldn’t have called to let me know if that hadn’t been the case.

           Damian’s voice as he addressed Alfred came through the receiver clearly. “Tell him I’m fine!” he called, sounding annoyed.

           This, naturally, tipped Alfred’s hand and told Bruce that Damian was or had been in some sort of danger. “What’s going on?” asked Bruce as he got into a sleek black car. His voice was hard.

           Alfred sighed. “I only called,” he began, “because I suspected you would notice the absence of some medical supplies at home, and I wanted to assure you that it was nothing to worry about.”

           “Medical supplies?” asked Bruce, his tone urgent. He exited the parking garage, waving to the attendant on his way out. “What happened?”

           “A mere accident, nothing to worry about. Remember that day when you were fourteen and you almost sliced your thumb off trying to chop onions?”

           This had indeed happened, but a fourteen-year-old Bruce had not had the precision and control in which a sixteen-year-old Damian had been trained since birth. Besides, Damian was more gifted in the kitchen than Bruce, routinely preparing meals with the vegetables he grew in his garden. Dubiously, Bruce asked: “He was cooking?”

           “Well – yes, thank you, Doctor – one moment, Bruce.” It sounded like Alfred took the phone from his ear and pressed it against his shoulder, but Bruce still could make out his muffled voice as he admonished Damian. “Would you be a little less stoic when the doctor comes in again? Any other boy your age would be in whining in pain right now, your own pride be damned.”

           As Alfred lifted the phone back to his ear, Bruce heard Damian protest, “It doesn’t hurt,” but Alfred seemed to ignore him.

           Before Alfred could speak, Bruce asked, “Are you at a hospital?”

           “Oh,” sighed Alfred. “Well, I suppose we are. I would’ve taken care of it at home, but I thought it would be useful for a specialist to take a look at it.”

           “A look at what?”

           “A teensy laceration across the palm of his right hand.”

           “And yet you thought a specialist was necessary.”

           “If there had been any nerve damage, I certainly didn’t want to make it worse. I am not a trained doctor, Master Bruce.”

           “More or less.”

           “While undoubtedly flattering,” Alfred replied, “that is untrue. I can’t solve every problem in this house, you know.”

           It seemed to Bruce that Alfred meant more than just tending to injuries, but he didn’t press it. Knowing that Damian was there listening to whatever Alfred said on the phone certainly explained some of the butler's cryptic words to Bruce, who took this as an invitation to come act the part of father with his son, without letting Damian in on such an intent. “Which hospital? Gotham Mercy?”

           “The good doctor has tended to Damian’s injuries, and we should be home within the hour. There is no need to meet us here.”

           “Brentwood General, then.”

           “Master Bruce-”

           “Spare me, Alfred. I’ll be there shortly.”

           It took him another twenty minutes, fighting traffic across Kane Bridge, and then another ten to park and talk to the kindly older woman at the front desk who recovered immediately and professionally from the look of shock on her face when he gave her his name. Damian was in room 219, which incidentally corresponded to Bruce’s date of birth. Though Bruce did not believe in signs or fate or the vague will of the universe, he found himself somehow mysteriously a little bit reassured by this.

           There was a long rectangular window in the door to room 219, though a curtain had been pulled across the bed for some privacy. This was standard practice for Bruce’s sons, to hide their presence lest they attract attention. In the moment, though, it annoyed him: he wanted to see his boy as soon as possible.

           When he entered the unlocked room, Alfred peeked around the curtain. The expression melted off his face when he saw Bruce, a firm blankness rising in its stead. “Ah, Master Bruce,” he said, a moment before Bruce joined passed around the curtain – it was a transparent means of warning Damian a split second ahead of time. Damian sat on the very edge of a hospital bed, holding his obviously bandaged right hand protectively in his left. As Bruce stepped beyond the curtain, Damian glared up at him defiantly, as if daring him to show concern.

           Bruce stooped to his son’s level. He moved forward, reached out to take the injured hand. “How is it?”

           “Fine,” said Damian stubbornly. But since the bandage covered the wound itself, he allowed his father this small touch.

           “Superficial damage the recurrent branch of the median nerve,” Alfred announced, stepping in for Damian to answer Bruce’s question. “This is good fortune, really. Some simple physiotherapy exercises and we shall be all healed up in a few weeks. He sees far worse on a usual night out on the job.”

           With his thumb, Bruce traced across Damian’s bandaged palm. Underneath his touch, he imagined he could feel the damaged nerve tensing, flinching away from his tenderness. His gaze flicked up to his son, who stubbornly refused to make eye contact. “But you weren’t on the job, were you?”

           “No,” replied Damian. He sounded angry, and since Bruce could not immediately tell why he just assumed it was because Damian hated being treated with care, like the child he was. “It was an accident. That’s all.”

           “Accident how?”

           “Just an accident, why do you care about the details?”

           “Damian, please. Of course I care.”

           The door opened once more and they all fell silent; Bruce let go of Damian’s hand. “Alright,” came a voice Bruce didn’t recognize, and then a doctor wearing thick glasses appeared beyond the curtains, smiling pleasantly at Damian. Her eyebrows raised when she saw Bruce, a flash of coming face-to-face with celebrity in her eyes; then, professionally, she tamped that down. Addressing Damian, she gestured towards Bruce and said, “Oh, is this your father?” Sourly, Damian nodded, but she had already offered her hand to Bruce. “Nice to meet you, Mister Wayne,” she said.

           “You as well, Doctor,” he read the name on her coat, “Ghorbani.”

            The name sounded familiar, but Bruce couldn’t recall from where exactly, and he was certain he did not recognize the doctor. Once she had shaken Bruce’s hand, she went to Damian’s side and held out a hand grip, the kind used in physical therapy. “Okie-doke,” she said, “I want you to spend ten minutes on this every day until the stitches dissolve, then twenty minutes every day after that until you come in for another check-up.” She squeezed the thing, demonstrating how to use it. “Think you can do that?”

           “Yes,” answered Damian glumly, taking the thing when she offered it to him.

           Dr. Ghorbani took his hand and gestured towards his grip. “Just remember not to put too much pressure right here on the center of your palm. You might have to use it at a weird angle to avoid that, but it’ll be good for you. Leave your grip good as new. Sound good?”

           “Yes,” said Damian again. “Do I need to rest it, or can I continue with my regular activities?”

           “Be a little gentle with it,” said Dr. Ghorbani. “Are you right-handed?”

           “Left-handed.” Damian was perfectly ambidextrous, but it was easier to lie.

           “Perfect. Then it shouldn’t be a problem. Just be careful, OK?”

           “Done. Thank you.”

           “No problem. See you in a couple weeks, OK Damian?”

           “Yes.”

           She turned around and smiled at Alfred and Bruce. “Ibuprofen for the pain, but he was a trooper today so I think he’ll be alright. Mister Pennyworth,” she said, shaking Alfred’s hand, then taking Bruce’s once more. “Mister Wayne.”

           Then she swept away, on to another patient. Damian slipped off of the bed, heading towards the door. “Alfred,” said Bruce, as they followed Damian out. “Have we used that doctor before?”

           “No, I don’t believe so.”

           “Hn. She seemed familiar.”

           Damian piped up from before them as they traversed the hospital halls. “I know her sister,” he threw over his shoulder. “Niloufar. She goes to Colin’s school.”

           That was probably it. Bruce had thoroughly vetted all of Damian’s friends.

           Once they exited the hospital, Bruce moved forward slightly, from Alfred’s side to beside his son. He placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “You’ll come with me.”

           Damian tore his shoulder out of his father’s grip. “I’ll come where I damn well want.”

           There in the parking lot, Bruce and Damian both stopped, both a little bit shocked Damian had actually said that aloud. Quickly Alfred moved forward, seeking to soothe the situation before it got worse. “A good idea, I think,” he said reassuringly. “Damian, I do so hate your preferred radio station. Surely your father, a younger man than I, could tolerate it with more ease.”

           It was not real, a stupid fake reason for Damian to ride in the car with Bruce rather than Alfred. But Damian glanced in between his father and Alfred, sizing up a potential fight, then shrugged. “Can I drive?”

           “Do you have your permit?”

           “Father, I don’t need a permit-”

           “It’s a company car, Damian. The answer is no.”

           Damian grumbled, “You own the company,” but didn’t argue. Bruce told Alfred they would see him at home, and then he led Damian to the sleek black Bentley which he’d taken from the garage at the Tower. They both got into the car without saying a word. Bruce drove out of the parking lot in silence, and then Damian reached out to fiddle with the radio, landing on a station currently playing Kanye. Bruce surprised himself by being able to recognize the song: it was on one of Damian’s playlists, which he often blasted while he worked out. From his spot before the computer, Bruce could usually hear his son’s music from the distant bowels of the Cave.

           “What happened?” asked Bruce, slowing down to a few miles below the speed limit on the mostly empty road leading through the luxurious upper-class Brentwood neighborhood.

           “Nothing,” answered Damian shortly.

           Bruce took that, and thought it over for a minute. “Obviously something happened,” he continued, gesturing towards Damian’s injured hand. “I promise I won’t be angry.”

           As if offended, Damian shot back, “I didn’t think you’d be angry.”

           “Then why don’t you want to tell me?”

           “Because it’s not your business.”

           “You’re my son. Your wellbeing is absolutely my business.”

           “Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m fine. My hand will be back to normal in a matter of weeks.”

           This was frustrating, but serious conversations with Damian were wont to be so. Bruce tried another route: distraction. “You’re welcome to whatever you need for scar treatment. I know you don’t like injured hands.”

           Bruce could practically feel his son tense up in the passenger’s seat beside him. He looked out the window. Spring had come early this year, and it was beautiful outside. “It’s fine,” he murmured, evidence that Damian knew what Bruce was really talking about.

           The last time Damian seriously damaged his hands had been before his official diagnosis of obsessive-compulsive disorder: while it was not uncommon for Bruce or the other boys to come home with bruises along their knuckles after the night’s work, it had somehow started to get to Damian on a level he had not been able to articulate. He had scratched through the skin up two fingers on his left hand, smearing blood across his face when he rubbed at his eye – both telltale signs of an episode about to hit Damian in full force. It had been a year since then and Damian had not had an incident in some time. But Bruce didn’t think it was entirely illogical to fear that damaged hands of this variety might trigger something in Damian’s brain, something that he could not control.

           “I worry,” said Bruce.

           “You shouldn’t,” said Damian. “It’s fine.”

           “Consider staying in tonight? I understand you have a microbiology project to finish for Alfred.”

           “Tt.” Damian was silent for a minute or two. “I’ll think about it.”

           In the end, Damian did not stay in. He left the Cave on his motorcycle minutes after Bruce did, though his status report delivered before he fell into bed just before the early gray light of dawn began to hit seemed to suggest that he had taken it slow.

           On the second night he busted the stitches in his hand. Bruce came back to the Cave early to find Damian without his cape, mask, boots, or gloves, sitting on the examination table trying not to curse as Alfred carefully restitched the wound. “That should teach you a lesson,” said Alfred wisely, his bespectacled eyes focused on the task at hand. “Be kind to your healing body, or else it will not be kind to you. It’ll scar now, you know.”

           Scathingly, Damian told him, “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

           “You know,” said Alfred, glancing up to meet the boy’s eye, “sometimes I question that, Damian.”

           As soon as the stitches were complete, Damian tugged his hand away and headed upstairs, scowling. Bruce was left alone with Alfred. He removed the cowl and the cape, setting them aside, then hovered anxiously for a moment. Patiently, Alfred waited for whatever question it was that Bruce was trying to ask.

           His voice slightly hushed, Bruce asked, “You think he’s alright?”

           “I do,” answered Alfred without hesitation. “He’s resentful, that’s all. Otherwise I do believe he’s managing quite well.”

           “Will you tell me what happened?”

           “No,” said Alfred, cleaning up the medical station. “He has asked me, quite civilly, to respect his privacy. I shall do so.”

           “He’s injured, I’m his father. I deserve to know.”

           With a shrug, Alfred replied, “Children injure themselves and keep it from their parents with wild and reckless abandon, Bruce. You of all people should know this.”

           It was a jab at Bruce’s own tendency, especially as a sulky teenager and younger man, to keep his own wounds secret from Alfred. Still, it had been a long time since then, and in the meantime Bruce had come to understand that all would have been much simpler had he just gone to Alfred in the first place.

           “Besides,” added Alfred, disinfecting the equipment and washing his hands, “you’re doing it again.”

           Distracted, Bruce looked up at Alfred. “Doing what?”

           Meeting Bruce’s eye with an expression that said quite clearly, You know what, Alfred answered. “Leveraging paternal concern as if it amounts to the same thing as orders on the field. Conflating Father and Batman. And know, Master Bruce, that if I have noticed, then he most certainly has.”

           This was a particular anxiety which Bruce had shared with Alfred after the emotionally exhausting three-day trip to a deserted island with Damian, wherein Damian had patently refused to give Bruce any meaningful insight to his relationship with the Titans (with, particularly, a certain Iris West), and also they’d come across a young assassin with whom Damian had naturally identified. Though Damian had not shared anything of this nature with Alfred, Bruce’s blind spot had always been found in the intersection of his own personal identity and that of the Batman, so he had asked Alfred to keep him in check, let him know when he went too far.

           Still. Knowing did not mean he could easily change it.

           Lowly – almost weakly – Bruce said, “It’s the only way I know how to be.”

           “Then you and Damian must learn another way together,” Alfred said simply, drying his hands. “Or else we will be stuck in this impasse of noncommunication forever.”

           “Don’t you think he should-”

           “No, no, Bruce,” said Alfred, shaking his head. “I do not enable. Speak to him, not about him.”’

           “I’ve been trying.”

           “Then try differently,” Alfred told him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am an old man and I need my rest. I suggest you sleep as well. If you require food, there are sandwiches in the kitchen.” He headed towards the elevator, as the many stairs up to the Manor were hard on his arthritic knees.

           Given that they’d ended the night early, Bruce awoke before noon the next day. Damian still slept, and when Bruce went to check on him he was indeed fast asleep, earbuds neatly tucked into his ears. This gave Bruce some relief. There had been a month or so when Damian first started his medication when he had been too wired to sleep at all, which had resulted in another total meltdown. Rest meant healing. Bruce was grateful.

           Dick called, and Bruce talked to him for a while. He wanted to ask Dick to ask Damian what happened to his hand, but he also thought telling him about it might be a violation of Damian’s trust, so he refrained. He ended the call a few minutes before Damian entered the kitchen, barefoot, in his pajamas.

           He too had a phone at his ear. “You didn’t have to call me,” he was telling whomever it was that was on the other line. “I told you I can’t be there every weekend.”            Without acknowledging his father’s presence, Damian took a glass out of the cabinet and filled it with water from the fridge. “Yes,” he said, into the phone. “No, Lian is. Well, if she’s not there, then Milagro. Just ask her. It would be a good leadership experience for you Chris, you should do it.” He paused, then said, “No, don’t put her on the phone. It’s fine. You’ll be good at it.” He took a sip of water, still standing at the counter by the fridge. “Can’t you ask your father for this? He leads the entire Justice League, I only co-lead the eight of us every other weekend or – no, no, go ahead. You just have to do it, Chris, no time for hesitance. Confidence is key. Good luck.”

           He took his phone away from his ear and took out two slices of bread, sticking them in the toaster.

           “You should have some eggs,” said Bruce, from his spot at the kitchen table. “Protein.”

           Damian flashed a container of homemade baked beans at his father, which were in fact more protein-dense than eggs. “What happened to the gluten-free bread?” he asked, fiddling with the stud earring in his left ear: he had recently pierced his ear while away one weekend with the Titans, intending to thread a wire through the hole to anchor his communicator, keep it from falling off. Quickly he had realized this design wouldn’t work, but instead of taking the earring out and allowing the hole to heal and close on its own, he had kept it in as an aesthetic decoration.

           “Alfred froze it,” Bruce replied. “It goes bad quickly. You can thaw it as long as you make sure to eat it all within the week.”

           “It’s fine,” said Damian, turning back to the toaster. “I don’t like the taste anyway.”

           Damian had been the one to ask Alfred to buy gluten-free bread in the first place, but Bruce didn’t point this out. “Was that Christopher?”

           “They have a mission,” answered Damian, because it clearly had been, “and neither Lian nor I are there to lead, so they’re making do on their own.”

           “He’d be a good leader.”

           “No,” said Damian, as his toast popped up. “He can be slow to prioritize the right threats sometimes. I suspect it has to do with his autism mostly, but he lacks confidence in his abilities, which makes it worse.”

           Bruce’s eyebrows almost went up at how glibly Damian referred to his friend’s condition, but he hid his surprise immediately. Clark had mentioned it once or twice to Bruce, but always in the context that he suspected it had something to do with Chris’s alien nature, or the rapid ageing, or the effects of the Phantom Zone. It was a sore spot, a little bit; Bruce knew that when he was child some of the various doctors Alfred had made him go see had discussed the possibility that Bruce too had been somewhere along the spectrum, but it had never progressed past a childhood almost-diagnosis. He didn’t know why Clark or Damian speaking about it so easily made him feel the slightest bit self-conscious, but it did.

           Though Bruce had certainly listened to Clark when he spoke about his son’s condition, Bruce had rarely reciprocated with talk about Damian. He had mentioned it, particularly when explaining his resignation from the League, but if he talked about Damian to any of his colleagues, it was mostly Diana. There had always been something about her which made it very hard to lie to her, and which compelled Bruce often to say more than he should.

           “He’s welcome to visit Themyscira,” she had told Bruce once, “should he ever need a break from the pressure of the man’s world.”

           Slightly troubled by this wording, Bruce wondered if he had implied to her more than he’d meant to.

           “They need to learn to function independently, anyway,” Bruce finally replied to his son. “Though what stopped you from joining them this weekend?”

           Without turning around from fixing his breakfast, Damian held up his bandaged hand. “Wouldn’t be performing at my best, and I can’t expect them to pick up my slack.”

           Bruce wanted to point out that his absence meant they would be picking up even more slack than if he had shown up and merely been injured, but, not wanting to upset his son, he said nothing. Damian brought his plate, on which two toasted slices of bread were heaped with baked beans, to the kitchen table to down across from Bruce, opening something on his phone to read.

           “Where’s Alfred?” he asked.

           “Resting. I think he’s reading that book you recommended.”

           Damian made a face. “I didn’t recommend it, I only said I liked it. He’ll think it’s crass.”

           Bruce didn’t answer this. “Dick called. He’s well. He said you should come visit him in Chicago sometime.”

           Damian glanced up at his father, his mouth twisted into a reluctant grimace. “You didn’t tell him about my hand, did you?”

           “No,” answered Bruce. “I did not.”

           There was a long silence. Damian went back to his phone.

           “Damian,” said Bruce. “Can we talk about this?”

           Looking up from his phone, Damian watched his father warily. “What is there left to say?”

           With a nod towards Damian’s hand, Bruce asked, “How did you hurt yourself?”

           There was no hesitation in Damian’s voice. “It’s not your business.”

           “Why wouldn’t it be?”

           “Because you aren’t the one whose hand was gashed open.”

           “You don’t think it’s my business to know what has caused injury to my son.”

           “I think you should quit interrogating me about it.”

           Bruce was silent for a moment, watching his son. Damian went back to his phone.

           “Did you do it to yourself?” Bruce asked.

           “No,” answered Damian, with a disdainful look at his father. “I told you, it was an accident.”

           “Why were you handling dangerous tools out of uniform?”

           “It’s not as if I was juggling my steel, Father. It was a normal civilian accident.”

           “How?”

           Damian let out a frustrated sigh and got to his feet, taking his plate with him. “I’m going to the dining room,” he said curtly, “so that I may eat my breakfast in peace.”

           “You can’t keep these things from me,” Bruce said, raising his voice as Damian began to head out of the kitchen. “If your performance is going to be affected in the field-”

           “It won’t,” Damian called, without turning around.

           “You said only a moment ago that you aren’t with the Titans because-”

           At this, Damian turned around, still holding his plate in his hands. With intent to injure, he said, “You took Dick on as Robin when he was a harmless twelve-year-old. You, unlike my team of untrained teenagers, won’t have any trouble picking up my slack.”

           Bruce began, “If you were injured on patrol-”

           “But it wasn’t on patrol.”

           “This only works,” Bruce said, gesturing between the two of them, “because of constant communication.”

           Damian let out a bark of laughter. “Now you’re just making fun.”

           “Damian, please,” said Bruce, without getting up. “I have to know what’s going on or else I’m not comfortable with you out on patrol with me.”

           “It’s a good thing I have my own route, then, so I won’t be there to trouble you.”

           “Just tell me,” said Bruce, his voice hard.

           “No,” snapped Damian. “I have a right to privacy.”

           “This is not privacy. This is secrecy.”

           Derisively, Damian retorted, “Because you’ve never kept any secrets from me.”

           “What I do,” Bruce told his son, slowly, clearly, “I do for your sake. And if you cannot trust me, then I cannot trust you.”

           In the silence that ensued, Damian just shrugged. “Fine,” he said.

           “Fine,” echoed Bruce. “Then you’ll stay in tonight.”

           Damian’s expression did not soften. “If I take an entire week off, will that be satisfactory punishment?”

           Bruce didn’t say anything, though he wanted to. When he finally managed to collect his thoughts, Damian had already let out a contemptuous, “Tt,” and left through the kitchen door, disappearing into the dining room.

           Later that day, at Alfred’s insistence, Bruce met Damian out back where he worked in the vegetable garden and ruefully told him Bruce would not prevent him from going on patrol that night. Damian refused to hear it, shrugging his father off and insisting he might as well stay in the Cave anyway and direct operations. He lacked experience out of the field, anyway.

           To Bruce’s surprise and a little bit of consternation, Damian performed excellently handling operations from the Cave. Barbara even agreed to allow him to take over some of Oracle’s duties, and the next morning she sent Bruce an evaluation report in which she spoke very highly of Damian’s abilities, noting in particular that his attitude had improved significantly in the past few years. When Bruce called her to get her personal thoughts – Bruce had become accustomed to hearing her voice, and in the absence of the rest of the family she had become a great friend to him – she said, “You should be proud, Bruce.”

           He was. He tried to let the hand thing go, to stop thinking about it, but he had difficulty doing so. Damian remained in the Cave at night for a week, and continued to perform well. When Alfred took his stitches out he resumed he regular duties, and was gone the next weekend with the Titans. At meals Bruce caught Damian tracing the scar tissue on his hand repeatedly but almost unconsciously, and every night before he put on his gloves he rubbed scar treatment cream on his palm while Bruce gave him a summary of directives and the status of active missions. It bothered Bruce, though he tried to ignore it.

           Nearly a month gone from Damian’s accident and his hand was back to normal apart from the fading scar. Still, it troubled Bruce, stuck like a burr in the back of his mind the same way, Bruce imagined, that it did for Damian.

           His college acceptances arrived by mail. Princeton, Yale, Columbia, Brown, Stanford. UCLA, too, which surprised Bruce: he hadn’t even known Damian applied to UCLA. Damian accepted Princeton’s offer, planning to enter university in the fall as a finance major. “Maybe I’ll pick up a visual arts minor or something,” he said, on the phone with Dick while leafing through the admissions materials. “Yeah.” Dick said something, and Damian gave a little laugh. “Maybe.”

           That night, Alfred and Damian made stuffed Portobello mushrooms for dinner with some of the fresh vegetables from Damian’s garden. “We need to stop by the food kitchen soon,” said Damian, eating his meal with gusto at the dinner table. “I’m harvesting the kale and the beetroot and the cucumbers this week and there’s far too much of it.”

           “We shall go tomorrow,” promised Alfred. “Damian, these mushrooms are exquisite.”

           “They didn’t even take the first time,” Damian said, nodding down at his food, inspecting the texture of the mushroom. “It’s too cold outside at nighttime, had to move them indoors.”

           Bruce glanced up. “Indoors where?”

           “The studio.”

           “In the greenhouse?”

           “Yes.”

           There was a pause.

           Then Damian continued, “Next time I’ll let them grow a little more before I harvest. They could’ve been a bit bigger, don’t you think?”

           “I think they are wonderful,” answered Alfred happily. “And delicious.”

           They ate in semi-silence.

           “How is your hand?” asked Bruce.

           “Fine,” answered Damian, though there was very little fight in his tone. He set down his fork and held his palm out, showing Bruce. “Scar’s fading.”

           “That’s good.”

           Damian pushed his hair out of his face and went back to his phone. In the past few months he had let his hair grow out ever so slightly, just slightly longer than it had ever been in the past. When it reached a certain length it began to curl, which had the general effect of making Damian look younger, more like the kid he was. After dinner Alfred began to take the dishes into the kitchen, but Bruce and Damian managed to convinced him to sit back down, and instead insisted on cleaning up while Alfred relaxed.

           Bruce washed the dishes and Damian dried them and put them away, mostly in silence. Bruce was rinsing a pan when Damian said, “Father.”

           He looked around. Damian was standing at the counter, his thumb slipping across a fork embossed with the Wayne family crest. Lowering it, he looked up at his father with a look which was partly resignation, but which didn’t appear entirely unhappy.

           “You’re really still thinking about my hand?” he asked.

           Bruce set down the pan. “Of course I am.”

           Damian watched his father dispassionately. “Why?”

           “Because I’m your father, Damian. What happens to you matters to me.”

           Damian looked at Bruce for a moment, cocked his head as if he didn’t fully understand. With a jolt, it occurred to Bruce that perhaps he didn’t: injuries in the field were evidence of a failure, a consequence of one’s own carelessness and an inaccurate threat assessment. Any wounds Damian had suffered as a younger child were at the mercy of his teachers, and Bruce suspected – through Damian did not speak of his time with his mother – that Talia had used injury always to teach her son, to show him that pain and hurt has value and use. Bruce was not entirely certain that either of Damian’s parents had ever really shown to him that they cared merely for the sake of caring.

           Once more Damian brushed a curl back, off of his forehead. “I’ll show you,” he said, “if you still want to know.”

           Bruce leaned against the sink. “I do.”

           “OK.” He nodded towards the French doors leading out to the back garden, and Bruce followed him out. It was dark outside already, just past dusk: fireflies crisscrossed lazily through the air, but Damian ignored them.

           They ostensibly were heading for Damian’s vegetable patch. “Were you gardening?” he asked.

           “No.” Damian crossed the lawn, towards the greenhouse with its glass black like oceanwater in the darkness. “I sculpt.”

           Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you cut your hand on a pottery wheel.”

           “Father, please, that’s ceramics. I said I sculpt.”

           Holding his tongue, doing his best to make sure Damian felt safe and unjudged, Bruce said, “Alright. What do you sculpt?”

           Damian opened the door to the dark greenhouse, then flicked a switch. Light flooded the place, reflecting white against the glass.

           “Marble,” he said.

           Bruce stood in the entrance to the ancient old greenhouse, a broken down, useless structure which Alfred and Damian had converted last summer into a studio. Naturally Bruce had always known his youngest son had artistic inclinations – he had seen his sketchbooks, and there’d been the watercolors a while ago – but sculpting marble was somehow not something Bruce had been remotely prepared for.

           A half dozen roughly-hewn figures stood frozen in the shadows, while another, half-formed into a bust, was positioned centrally. Piles of sandpaper, dust, and marble chips covered the floor. In the far corner, a tray of mushrooms grew.

           Beside Bruce, Damian brushed back his hair again. “I’ve been a little manic about it,” Damian admitted. “I only slipped and hurt my hand because I hadn’t been sleeping enough.”

           It was an admission of vulnerability, and it took Bruce slightly aback. “Ah,” he said. “Well.” He moved forward, slowly circling the rough bust. “These are very impressive, Damian.”

           “They’re just practice,” Damian said.

           “They’re very good.”

           Damian hesitated, hovering by the door. “Thanks,” he said.

           “Did Alfred buy you these supplies?”

           “Technically you did,” Damian replied, but he didn’t sound in the least bit ashamed. “I only forged your signature on the checks.”

           Though rationally Bruce knew he was supposed to be upset with his son for that, he couldn’t bring himself out of the strange sense of awe he felt, being in this room. There was a short silence as Bruce moved between the chunks of marble, inspecting them from all sides. He glanced back at Damian and asked, “Have you ever thought about a show?”

           “Show?” Damian echoed his father as if he did not understand, certain he had misheard. “Not…particularly.” He paused, then added, “They’re not very good,” legitimately, as if to inform his poor uncultured father on the simple fact of the matter.

           But Bruce had made up his mind. “They’re exquisite,” he said with certainty. “All your artwork has been collecting dust, Damian. Even if you choose not to display these,” he gestured at the statues, “you should have a showing of some sort. Frankly I’m disappointed I never thought of it earlier.”

           For a long moment, Damian didn’t say anything. Then Bruce peeked out from behind a statue to see his son standing still at the threshold, watching Bruce with a kind of deeply touched disbelief.

           He recovered quickly. “That’s idiotic,” he said, his expression snapping back to normal. “A private gallery showing is absurd. I’ve never even displayed any of my pieces before.”

           Bruce never said private gallery, but he wasn’t about to correct his son. “That’s not true,” he pointed out. “You did that art class at the Neon Knights Center a few months ago, and they displayed your work there once it was over.”

           “That was for charity,” Damian pointed out. “Tim’s PR team requested that I do it.”

           “This can be for charity too,” Bruce insists, crossing the studio back to his son. “We can offer to sell the pieces you wouldn’t mind parting with, then donate the proceeds to charity.”

           Shaking his head, Damian leaned against the doorframe. “No one will buy anything.”

           “Then we make the donation ourselves.”

           “That’s not-”

           Bruce interrupts. “Damian,” he said, earnestly. “Please.”

           After an extended pause, wherein Damian watched his father suspiciously, as if waiting for the punchline – finally, Damian gave a long theatrical sigh, and shrugged. “Fine,” he said, and Bruce got the impression he was very pleased to be convinced. “But I’ll have to take another look at my work. Hardly anything is worth showing, in any case.”

           He turned and headed back into the house. Behind him, Bruce followed, making his way through the grass and the flowers back into the Manor, a small smile on his face.

           The next day – Damian was technically on summer vacation, which usually made no impact on his studies, but as the days led up to his start at Princeton, Alfred had decided it prudent to give him a break – was spent mostly in the big living room with the French doors swung wide open. By the time Bruce awoke and made it down to slurp down coffee and his usual breakfast, Damian had already stuffed the room with almost every completed artwork of his he could scrounge up. It was staggering, really, the breadth of art that Damian had dabbled in; Bruce and Alfred sat dutifully on the sofa as Damian presented piece after piece, charcoal, watercolors, oil paintings, inked figure studies – a fully-inked short story comic, which Damian clarified he would not sell, until Alfred suggested they have it printed so that they may sell copies, to which Damian agreed with poorly disguised glee, delighted at the idea.

           Often Damian stopped, describing and observing a certain piece with a critical look in his eye. When he began to express his doubts about whether or not it deserved a place in the gallery showing, Bruce or Alfred would shake their head and one of them would say, “No, no, it’s too good; you have to include it.”

            Once the comic was printed, the gallery was booked, the catering ordered, and the event publicized, it came too quickly. Damian wore a nice suit, black, to contrast against his father’s pinstripe gray. He dragged his feet in those last few minutes, reluctantly getting into the car, then staying silent for the ride into the city. As they approached, he said snappily, “You know, this art space could’ve just as easily been used to showcase some of the more under-recognized art of real Gothamites, that is, you know, people who don’t have rich white old fathers to bankroll their own personal indulgences-”

           But given the right conditions, Damian loved being the center of attention, and as soon as guests started arriving he seemed to find his place. Half an hour in Dick showed up, bunching his arms around Damian in a tight hug which Damian only half-pretended to hate – he had flown in from Chicago specifically for this, while Bruce and Alfred kept it a secret. Tim was there, took a few pictures with Damian and with Bruce, provided a blurb for the press. At his side was Tam Fox, who was the one to actually coordinate the mini press conference and remind Tim that his PR team wanted the photos. Damian resented Tim’s presence, but he didn’t hate Tam; she was particularly taken by his oil paintings, and deeply impressed by the single completed marble sculpture he had decided to show.

           Colin showed up in jeans and a button-up shirt, and Damian gave him a copy of the comic, free of charge. Though Cass was out of the country on business, as she was wont to be, both Stephanie and Barbara showed up together. “Damn, Li’l D, this is good,” said Steph. “Way better than that macaroni portrait you gave me way back when.”

           A few years ago, Damian had been coerced into attending a week-long summer camp where Stephanie worked as a camp counselor. They had indeed created macaroni portraits, and the one Damian had made of Stephanie still hung in her room.

           An anonymous patron bought six paintings and the sculpture for nearly twenty thousand dollars. Tam Fox signed for whoever it was. The rest of the purchases and donations amounted to twice that, and when they gave the check to the local community center in Gotham’s poorest neighborhood, Bruce matched the donation in full.

           On the drive home from the ceremony, Damian would say, “You know, throwing money at every little urban ill doesn’t necessarily amount to making a positive, sustainable change-” and Bruce had not interrupted his son. If he had, he might have told Damian that he was proud.