Where the Paths Will Meet
I've seen a few people writing about Bruce's reaction to dD, but I wanted to take a whack at writing a scene with Dick and Talia. So here it is.
Title: Where the Paths Will Meet
Fandom: Batman
Characters: Dick/(Damian), Talia
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,865
Summary: For Damian, Dick will do what he must. And so he finds himself at the mercy of the Demon's Head.
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“Ah, a personal delivery. How unexpected!”
A tone Dick is not unused to hearing. A ringing pretense of delight, practically par for the course in the champagne-dizzy galas of his life. But this is no charity event, and he has not come as a representative of Wayne Enterprises. The woman's voice echoes down the hall, preceding her entrance into the antechamber.
The room is not unlike those in Wayne Manor; the sheer luxury is made very clear. But it does not have the same robustness of Bruce's tastes. No dark leathers, no pragmatically simple shapes. The furniture here is delicate and intricate, but also has the capacity to be aggressive in its own manner. Despite the abundance of lounge chairs, this is a place for business.
“Talia,” he says in stiff greeting.
She cuts an elegant figure in the doorway; there is always something both extravagant and sparing about her appearance, like an orchid. When she steps within striking distance, his instincts clench, but she merely rounds her way to the sitting area.
“Please excuse the mess,” she says, pausing to flick a wedge of brain matter off an armchair. It skids against a silken throw pillow and falls to the carpet by Dick's feet. There's still a piece of skull connected, just barely hanging on by its meningeal tissues. “We've had other guests this morning.”
She perches herself on a daybed of dark lacquered wood, base carved intricately in the shape of a peafowl. Its back bends in submission, receiving her; the gold-embossed details of its eyes and feathers glimmer in the candlelight. She crosses her legs, angling her body to keep the fresh bloodstain on the corner from soaking into her dress.
“Please. Sit.”
Dick glances balefully at the ensemble of chairs and settees, the richly woven cushions with spiraling patterns. The furniture sprawls too open, like the mouths of carnivorous plants, pointed teeth hiding among the embroidered peonies and pomegranates.
“Or don't,” she says with faint amusement. “What you will.”
Grimacing, he throws down a stack of manila envelopes onto the coffee table between them. “Talia, I haven't come to play games.”
She hums neutrally in response, leaning forward to examine the offerings. She skims through the contents, crisp flicks of the pages.
“I brought you everything you asked for,” he asserts. He'd been sent on a variety of tasks, object retrieval, reconnaissance, facilitating trades. And most recently, stealing biotech intel from the S.T.A.R. Labs branch in Los Angeles. In the past three months, he has not been asked to kill, or do anything which would apparently compromise his morals, but Dick has no delusions that his hands remain clean-he can't claim ignorance to the workings of the Demon's Head. “You'll make sure he gets better,” he says, and it comes out like a question.
“Must I remind you again? The medical services are unconditional; I would have come for him regardless of your decisions. Our agreement,” she says, nodding towards the papers in her hand, “was to ensure that Damian be allowed to return to you.”
“Yes. Your ransom,” he clarifies.
She laughs. Low, and dangerous, and exquisite, like the bitterness of wine. “He has guided men to their graves as soon as he could walk; he will always have the jackal's heart. He is an assassin, a soldier of my League. And so, I believe it is you who are his kidnappers.”
Dick bites his tongue, jaw squaring. “You named him an enemy of your house. You turned your back on him. You disowned him.”
“I am his mother,” she declares. And Dick hates how she can use the word with such certainty when Damian has felt nothing but doubt about her for the past six years. “If anyone, he belongs to-”
“He belongs to no one,” Dick growls back, “but himself.”
She tilts her head at that, raising her eyebrows. Corners of her mouth crinkling. The look one gives a child when explaining a difficult subject. Then she closes her expression, blinking her eyes shut with languorous sweeps, as if it would be too futile to try communicating. She gathers the folders, slotting them back into their respective envelopes.
“We will have to confirm the veracity of your intel. But everything appears to be satisfactory. Damian will be released to your care next week, as promised.” She stands, bringing their conversation to a close. The air of expectancy she emits attempts to repel him. He wavers, but remains.
“Batman,” he says, treading lightly and waiting for a reaction. She gives none. “He'll have discovered my trail by now. And he'll probably try to stop you, whatever your next move is.”
She nods and purses her lips, suppressing a smile. It makes her glow, as though she is at her most beautiful when holding a secret. “You speak as if this were not within my intentions.”
Dick almost laughs. “Right. Of course.”
And then Talia does smile. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Grayson?”
Dick feels a sudden clawing behind his sternum and he leans toward her. “Damian,” he says, voice stretching taut over his words. “I…I want to see him.” He hadn't meant to sound so desperate.
Talia inclines her head, unfazed, even expectant.
“He's no longer in induced coma, but he's in surgery at the moment.” She furrows her brow in thought. “If you would wait, perhaps, a few hours…”
“No, I don't think-”
“You would be safe in the meantime,” she assures, a foreign earnestness in her voice. “I give you my word.”
Dick clenches his fists. “It's not an issue of trust,” he admits, breaking eye contact. “I just…I don't know if I'm ready. To speak with him.”
Talia shifts her weight from one foot to the other, body unaccustomed to awkwardness. The moment is strangely intimate. As if they are acknowledging one another as family.
“He cares for you a great deal,” she says quickly. Her eyes widen, as if surprised. “If it were you who had been hurt that day, you would be the one under our care. He would have found a way to force my hand.”
Dick clenches his jaw. “And you would do it. Under the condition that he return to the League, indefinitely.”
“But of course,” she says, the corner of her mouth lifting.
He frowns. “Then I would rather die.”
She shakes her head. “It is immaterial. He would never let that happen to you. He would do anything to…” Her voice drops to a low murmur. “Just as you would do…” Then her eyes change. Go out of focus. And he knows that she is no longer looking at his face, but at some point beyond his shoulder, beyond this room, somewhere in her mind. Pieces slotting together to form a place of understanding inside of her. Dick feels his heart twisting in his chest.
She returns her gaze to him with a renewed intensity, almost curiosity.
“He is very angry with you for bringing him here,” she says, openly amused. “Putting yourself at my mercy for his sake.”
“I know,” he responds, voice a chalky whisper.
She hums with humor, almost a chuckle. “But it will pass.”
“I know.”
Dick swallows, and doesn't know why he feels like crying.
Talia reaches towards him with a tentative hand. He resists shrinking away. Her fingers rest against his collarbone, briefly.
Finally, she nods, then starts towards the doorway. “Come.”
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They stand side by side, watching the procedure through the glass. Talia's voice creates a another background lull, joining the whirring of the robotics, the gushing of the nutrient fluids as they flow around Damian's body. She stops talking, noting that Dick cannot give her his attention. He glances at her sheepishly, but she does not seem offended.
“Damian, he…he's missed you.” Dick bites his lip immediately after the words come, knowing he has overstepped his bounds.
Talia smiles without joy. “He has chosen to walk with father, rather than his mother. It is a situation not unique to history, nor even unusual. I have accepted it.”
He frowns. “But there must be another way to-”
“In our world, the paths are old. And we have forgotten how to forge new trails.” She rolls her shoulders with a sigh, stretching the muscles of her neck and back. Dick sees the movement of her eyes in the glass as she examines her own reflection. “When you stray, you are lost forever.”
“But I'm not part of your world. I'm an outsider,” he says, in offering.
She huffs impatiently. A sound close enough to Damian's own habit that Dick almost stumbles, knees growing weak. There is a railing at hip-level, just below the observation window, and he grips it between his fingers as she answers tersely. “An outsider indeed, circus boy. And so it is not your concern.”
“I'll find it,” he blurts. He feels very young, speaking to her this way. “The middle road. So you can walk together again.” He promises nothing less than a miracle. Still, it is a good thing to say, he thinks.
“Hm.” She turns to leave, but then hesitates, gazing at him with an even regard. It is a cold look, a tired look. A pitying look. But it isn't disagreement.
The metal doors hiss shut at her departure and the nameless, faceless technicians continue their work, tapping away at their consoles. The robotic arms on the other side of the glass respond to their input, weaving with movements so precise that they border on graceful, but still fall short.
The needles and pincers swing back and forth, piercing and knotting, piercing and knotting, stitching along the length of Damian's body. Many of the scars Dick had come to learn are now missing, wiping a line through six years of shared history. New skin has been regrown and grafted over his muscles, whole organs harvested from clones and replaced.
He had looked so small, then. Just lying there on the deck of that ship, gunfire ringing overhead. So much blood, coming from so many places, no way to stop the flow. The hole in his abdomen yawning open, edges ragged, almost as though he had been bitten and mauled by some large animal. Dick can still remember seeing the dark color of the liver, the yellow-white of rib, and for some reason feeling surprised. It is easier to revisit the memory now, these three long months later. When the nausea hits him, he can look to the body suspended in the surgery chamber, and see that Damian is alive. See that he is healing, and not dying. Safe.
He lifts a hand, pressing it to the glass.
“Hi,” he says, quietly, but his voice still catches on the lump in his throat. The teen's dark hair floats in undulating waves, framing his closed eyes. “Hi, Damian.”
.end
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(A/N): So this wasn't super shippy, and in my head, Dick and Damian are not even a couple as of yet. But I hope the undercurrent of romantic inclinations still runs through; I feel like the conversation doesn't make as much sense without that context.