[DC Comics] The Stories Lied
A belated birthday present for red_confession. ♥ I hope you enjoy it!
Title: The Stories Lied
Fandom: DC Comics
Relationship: Bruce Wayne + Damian Wayne (platonic father-son love)
Summary: Bruce's supposed to be a terror of the night! Not some schlump reading self-help books and helping Damian cope with normalcy! Of all the things his mom had to get wrong, it had to be the stories about Batman.
Disclaimer: Absolutely none of this belongs to me. I'm just borrowing it all for a quick fanfic, okay? ♥
Bruce Wayne was nothing like the stories Damian's mom used to tell. From the moment Bruce returned, Wayne Manor had been a flurry of activity. As Damian peered down at the headless chickens - okay, servants - from the staircase balcony, he couldn't help shaking his head. Honestly! His father's return didn't signify a commandment to act stupid! (Except, wait: they already were.)
In the eye of the storm, his father calmly sat on the couch and read. From this distance, Damian couldn't tell the genre: for all he knew, his poor father might've fallen victim to those nasty Twilight books Brown liked so much. Standing up, Damian wove through the crowds to meet his father.
... Ya Allah. What kind of demon had possessed Bruce Wayne enough to make him read something called "The Time-Honored Art of Father-Son Bonding?" Pulling his palm down his face, Damian grimaced. He wanted a father who acted like the stories! Who was a fearsome man that struck terror into men's hearts! Not some schlump who... apparently sat around reading self-help books all day.
Casually turning the page, Bruce didn't bother to look up, "Yes, Damian?"
Nothing ever got past him. Damian grumbled, "What's up with the book?"
"It's my way of passing the time," Bruce slyly replied, now meeting Damian's sullen gaze. Motioning for Damian to sit down beside him, he then asked, "... So how do you feel about fly-fishing?"
"Hate it," Damian replied without a second thought. He plopped onto the couch and propped his feet against the coffee table - much to Fifi's dismay ("Master Damian! Put those feet down NOW!)" and Alfred's amusement - as he inspected the cover jacket more closely. A father-son team, presumably, were laughing and joking about something while they sat on a vintage Ford's hood.
Hmm. Was that really how American families passed the time? As if he could read Damian's mind, Bruce remarked, "Sometimes. I haven't met anyone that actually goes through all of these rites of passage." There was a solemn note in his voice, Damian noted - and was he gulping down something painful?
He didn't want to press it. He knew of his dead grandparents - who didn't? It was a fact of Bruce Wayne's life that never disappeared - and the hole they'd left in his father's heart. If there was any subject on this Earth that could bring emotion to his normally calm and calculating father, that'd be the one to press.
The uncharacteristic silence even grabbed the attention of Dick - who'd been busy re-arranging the dining room in the meantime for a press conference - who asked, "Hey. Are you two okay?"
Damian slowly yet confidently nodded, "... Yeah. Go do your job, Grayson."
"We're fine," Bruce solemnly replied, though his red eyes didn't leave the pages. Dick casually shrugged, backflipped to avoid an incoming table, and then led another team of caterers to the kitchen.
Bruce chuckled as he watched Dick leave, "I don't know why Alfred talked me into a party tonight."
"Isn't it supposed to be small?" Damian blinked. "Like, only a hundred people?" (For this family, a hundred was apparently the smallest it could get.)
"Yeah," Bruce nodded. "Mostly socialites and people I've known since I was a kid." After a moment, he replied, "So I'd appreciate it if you didn't punch Brent Vreeland in the stomach, alright? He didn't mean to insult you at that last gathering."
Damian snorted as he leaned back, "He totally deserved it last time." Noticing the suddenly dark expression on Bruce's face, he quickly amended, "... But I'll play nice if it matters that much to you."
"It'd help," Bruce admitted, turning a page every now and then. After a moment, he asked, "Camping?"
"Disgusting."
Bruce laughed, "Building model rockets?"
Peering over his shoulder, Damian curiously remarked, "Father, why're you going down such a ridiculous list? You know I'd never be interested."
"Doesn't mean you won't be later," Bruce answered, glancing back at his son. Setting the book down, he then cautiously hovered his hand above Damian's hair. Why was someone so brave hesitating? Damian didn't get it. Batman was the terror of the night and the strongest warrior ever, but in his own living room, Bruce Wayne didn't feel very menacing.
Damian casually shrugged. Slowly, Bruce lowered his hand and gently ruffled his son's hair. Damian could feel the blood rushing to his face. Dangit! He promised, he promised... he promised himself he wouldn't give in to this moment of weakness. So what if Bruce wanted to perform this time-honored tradition of 'father-son bonding?' By all means, Damian should seize the opportunity.
Something just didn't feel right. Like he was playing with a shadow of a man who only acted upon these lists out of guilt. (Damian didn't want his thoughts to wander there. Enough people in Wayne Manor hated him.)
"... Father?"
Bruce gave him a look - like all those dads on TV when they listened to their kids - as he asked, "You don't like it?"
Startled, Damian slowly smiled and reached up to squeeze his dad's hand. "No," He confessed, then bringing his feet underneath his chest, "It wasn't bad."
"Good," Bruce smiled down at him. Wrapping Damian in his arms, he picked the book up again, "... So how do you feel about road trips?"
Those ridiculous things where you sat in a car and aimlessly drove from place to place? Damian didn't like the sound of them; they'd be boring and uninformative and could primarily consist of pointless records like "the world's biggest ball of yarn." No, flying had to be the best method to get from point A to point B.
Yet, despite his inhibitions, Damian found himself nodding, "Sounds good."
Blatantly lying already? Just to spend time with his father? How the mighty have fallen. Enjoying his father's grip, Damian snuggled closer. "We're going to ditch tonight's party, aren't we?"
"You know me better than I thought," Bruce grinned. "Yeah. How does Boston sound?"
Damian shrugged, "Anywhere with you's good."
It was the truth: all road trips were the same. (TV lied about a lot of things, but the pointlessness of road trips - so far - wasn't one of them.) Watching people slowly regain their sense of purpose, Bruce then greeted Tim and Stephanie. They awkwardly tried to ignore the sleeping Damian in their mentor's arms, but the constant glances and rushed body language said otherwise.
"Uh, Bruce," Tim coughed, keeping his gaze on his mentor as much as he could, "Where're we putting the ice statues? The caterers're getting impatient."
"Plus, the DJ wants your opinion on these songs..." Steph bit her lip. "Or do you---"
"Why don't you two handle it," Bruce dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "It's a party. You two're more than capable of solving these dilemmas yourself."
Tim's face became slightly red as he rubbed the back of his neck, "Ah, sure. We'll talk to you later?"
For two competent vigilantes, they sure had a weird tendency to nearly crash into the door, servants, and even a card table on their way out. Opening an eye, Damian lazily commented, "Classy as usual, I see."
Again, Bruce ruffled Damian's hair as he leaned back, "... They're just not used to this." 'I'm not used to this,' was the silent addendum that even Damian understood. He didn't mind; he couldn't say that he knew what it felt like to spend time with his biological father. There'd been the numerous outings and parties that Dick dragged Damian to, but it felt less like a father's guiding hand than an older brother protecting him from the pitfalls of social life.
"I know," Damian replied after a while. Reluctantly releasing himself from his father's arms, he then rose up and smiled. "So let's help them. The more we look like we're interested, the less they'll suspect our voluntary disappearance."
Bruce just smirked as he shut the book and lay it on the table. Leading the way to the dining room, he took Damian's hand and held it tightly as they passed the numerous decorations and helpers working their magic (not counting Zatanna, who actually used real magic in the ballroom) everywhere.
So what if he wasn't menacing? So what if he wasn't always a strong warrior who could hold his own in battle? He was still Damian's father - who was going road-tripping with him! - and they'd always have each other. (He hoped.)
"Da--Father," Damian began awkwardly, still holding his dad's hand, "... Thanks."
"You're welcome," Bruce replied just as warmly as they set down to work and finished the rest of the evening's preparations. Talia's stories got everything wrong except in one aspect: their Batman, his father... was the world's strongest person. One who could handle the stress of a dinner party with jokes and laughter. One who could handle his multitude of children with some ease (and plenty of awkwardness).
Damian supposed... that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have it any other way. Even if that meant he'd have to deal with Father and his ridiculous self-help books for the rest of his life.
Title: The Stories Lied
Fandom: DC Comics
Relationship: Bruce Wayne + Damian Wayne (platonic father-son love)
Summary: Bruce's supposed to be a terror of the night! Not some schlump reading self-help books and helping Damian cope with normalcy! Of all the things his mom had to get wrong, it had to be the stories about Batman.
Disclaimer: Absolutely none of this belongs to me. I'm just borrowing it all for a quick fanfic, okay? ♥
Bruce Wayne was nothing like the stories Damian's mom used to tell. From the moment Bruce returned, Wayne Manor had been a flurry of activity. As Damian peered down at the headless chickens - okay, servants - from the staircase balcony, he couldn't help shaking his head. Honestly! His father's return didn't signify a commandment to act stupid! (Except, wait: they already were.)
In the eye of the storm, his father calmly sat on the couch and read. From this distance, Damian couldn't tell the genre: for all he knew, his poor father might've fallen victim to those nasty Twilight books Brown liked so much. Standing up, Damian wove through the crowds to meet his father.
... Ya Allah. What kind of demon had possessed Bruce Wayne enough to make him read something called "The Time-Honored Art of Father-Son Bonding?" Pulling his palm down his face, Damian grimaced. He wanted a father who acted like the stories! Who was a fearsome man that struck terror into men's hearts! Not some schlump who... apparently sat around reading self-help books all day.
Casually turning the page, Bruce didn't bother to look up, "Yes, Damian?"
Nothing ever got past him. Damian grumbled, "What's up with the book?"
"It's my way of passing the time," Bruce slyly replied, now meeting Damian's sullen gaze. Motioning for Damian to sit down beside him, he then asked, "... So how do you feel about fly-fishing?"
"Hate it," Damian replied without a second thought. He plopped onto the couch and propped his feet against the coffee table - much to Fifi's dismay ("Master Damian! Put those feet down NOW!)" and Alfred's amusement - as he inspected the cover jacket more closely. A father-son team, presumably, were laughing and joking about something while they sat on a vintage Ford's hood.
Hmm. Was that really how American families passed the time? As if he could read Damian's mind, Bruce remarked, "Sometimes. I haven't met anyone that actually goes through all of these rites of passage." There was a solemn note in his voice, Damian noted - and was he gulping down something painful?
He didn't want to press it. He knew of his dead grandparents - who didn't? It was a fact of Bruce Wayne's life that never disappeared - and the hole they'd left in his father's heart. If there was any subject on this Earth that could bring emotion to his normally calm and calculating father, that'd be the one to press.
The uncharacteristic silence even grabbed the attention of Dick - who'd been busy re-arranging the dining room in the meantime for a press conference - who asked, "Hey. Are you two okay?"
Damian slowly yet confidently nodded, "... Yeah. Go do your job, Grayson."
"We're fine," Bruce solemnly replied, though his red eyes didn't leave the pages. Dick casually shrugged, backflipped to avoid an incoming table, and then led another team of caterers to the kitchen.
Bruce chuckled as he watched Dick leave, "I don't know why Alfred talked me into a party tonight."
"Isn't it supposed to be small?" Damian blinked. "Like, only a hundred people?" (For this family, a hundred was apparently the smallest it could get.)
"Yeah," Bruce nodded. "Mostly socialites and people I've known since I was a kid." After a moment, he replied, "So I'd appreciate it if you didn't punch Brent Vreeland in the stomach, alright? He didn't mean to insult you at that last gathering."
Damian snorted as he leaned back, "He totally deserved it last time." Noticing the suddenly dark expression on Bruce's face, he quickly amended, "... But I'll play nice if it matters that much to you."
"It'd help," Bruce admitted, turning a page every now and then. After a moment, he asked, "Camping?"
"Disgusting."
Bruce laughed, "Building model rockets?"
Peering over his shoulder, Damian curiously remarked, "Father, why're you going down such a ridiculous list? You know I'd never be interested."
"Doesn't mean you won't be later," Bruce answered, glancing back at his son. Setting the book down, he then cautiously hovered his hand above Damian's hair. Why was someone so brave hesitating? Damian didn't get it. Batman was the terror of the night and the strongest warrior ever, but in his own living room, Bruce Wayne didn't feel very menacing.
Damian casually shrugged. Slowly, Bruce lowered his hand and gently ruffled his son's hair. Damian could feel the blood rushing to his face. Dangit! He promised, he promised... he promised himself he wouldn't give in to this moment of weakness. So what if Bruce wanted to perform this time-honored tradition of 'father-son bonding?' By all means, Damian should seize the opportunity.
Something just didn't feel right. Like he was playing with a shadow of a man who only acted upon these lists out of guilt. (Damian didn't want his thoughts to wander there. Enough people in Wayne Manor hated him.)
"... Father?"
Bruce gave him a look - like all those dads on TV when they listened to their kids - as he asked, "You don't like it?"
Startled, Damian slowly smiled and reached up to squeeze his dad's hand. "No," He confessed, then bringing his feet underneath his chest, "It wasn't bad."
"Good," Bruce smiled down at him. Wrapping Damian in his arms, he picked the book up again, "... So how do you feel about road trips?"
Those ridiculous things where you sat in a car and aimlessly drove from place to place? Damian didn't like the sound of them; they'd be boring and uninformative and could primarily consist of pointless records like "the world's biggest ball of yarn." No, flying had to be the best method to get from point A to point B.
Yet, despite his inhibitions, Damian found himself nodding, "Sounds good."
Blatantly lying already? Just to spend time with his father? How the mighty have fallen. Enjoying his father's grip, Damian snuggled closer. "We're going to ditch tonight's party, aren't we?"
"You know me better than I thought," Bruce grinned. "Yeah. How does Boston sound?"
Damian shrugged, "Anywhere with you's good."
It was the truth: all road trips were the same. (TV lied about a lot of things, but the pointlessness of road trips - so far - wasn't one of them.) Watching people slowly regain their sense of purpose, Bruce then greeted Tim and Stephanie. They awkwardly tried to ignore the sleeping Damian in their mentor's arms, but the constant glances and rushed body language said otherwise.
"Uh, Bruce," Tim coughed, keeping his gaze on his mentor as much as he could, "Where're we putting the ice statues? The caterers're getting impatient."
"Plus, the DJ wants your opinion on these songs..." Steph bit her lip. "Or do you---"
"Why don't you two handle it," Bruce dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "It's a party. You two're more than capable of solving these dilemmas yourself."
Tim's face became slightly red as he rubbed the back of his neck, "Ah, sure. We'll talk to you later?"
For two competent vigilantes, they sure had a weird tendency to nearly crash into the door, servants, and even a card table on their way out. Opening an eye, Damian lazily commented, "Classy as usual, I see."
Again, Bruce ruffled Damian's hair as he leaned back, "... They're just not used to this." 'I'm not used to this,' was the silent addendum that even Damian understood. He didn't mind; he couldn't say that he knew what it felt like to spend time with his biological father. There'd been the numerous outings and parties that Dick dragged Damian to, but it felt less like a father's guiding hand than an older brother protecting him from the pitfalls of social life.
"I know," Damian replied after a while. Reluctantly releasing himself from his father's arms, he then rose up and smiled. "So let's help them. The more we look like we're interested, the less they'll suspect our voluntary disappearance."
Bruce just smirked as he shut the book and lay it on the table. Leading the way to the dining room, he took Damian's hand and held it tightly as they passed the numerous decorations and helpers working their magic (not counting Zatanna, who actually used real magic in the ballroom) everywhere.
So what if he wasn't menacing? So what if he wasn't always a strong warrior who could hold his own in battle? He was still Damian's father - who was going road-tripping with him! - and they'd always have each other. (He hoped.)
"Da--Father," Damian began awkwardly, still holding his dad's hand, "... Thanks."
"You're welcome," Bruce replied just as warmly as they set down to work and finished the rest of the evening's preparations. Talia's stories got everything wrong except in one aspect: their Batman, his father... was the world's strongest person. One who could handle the stress of a dinner party with jokes and laughter. One who could handle his multitude of children with some ease (and plenty of awkwardness).
Damian supposed... that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have it any other way. Even if that meant he'd have to deal with Father and his ridiculous self-help books for the rest of his life.