(FIC) Homesick (G)
For bringthehappy Happy Fest! erm.. I am hoping this is happy enough! Not beta'ed, point and I shall correct!
For the Prompt: DCU ; Damian ; impasse
Rating: G
Characters: Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson
Word Count: 1380+
Summary: He will understand if it is the last thing he ever does!
His olive green shirt is dirty with oil and grease. Any other shirt, Pennyworth would fuss about. Not this one, he isn't sure why.
They all look the same to him. Blue, gray, black, red. They are just shirts, not ceremonial garments or formal clothes or his Robin uniform.
He would never dare stain his Robin uniform with grease. The uniform means something to him, means he has a place, a duty, a role. The exact limits and rules are a code he has yet to crack, and it bothers him. How come he can understand his father's blueprints and notes, how come can he crack codes and riddles, but he can't figure out when it's okay to endanger a criminal's life or be strict in their physical punishment and when not? when is a crime less of a crime? when is a criminal less worthy of attention?
There seem to be secret rules for everything and yet no one is willing to share them with him. They talk about teaching him, and here he is, trying to play a game with only half a deck.
Ubu taught him how to play cards a few years ago, a secret game they shared behind his mother's and grandfather's backs. He was very good at hiding things from them.
He is very good at playing cards.
If only they would give him the rules. Why is it that nothing makes sense here in Gotham?
What bothers him the most is how they try to explain things like they barely understand them themselves. He tried asking Pennyworth why one shirt was okay and not the others, for example. All he got was that he couldn't ruin all his shirts or he would have nothing to wear. That was ridiculous. All Pennyworth had to do was get more shirts. He would have run out of clothes very quickly with his grandfather, in that case. They would always be bloodstained and ripped after training, and he was never to wear them again.
Running out of clothes. Nonsense, like he would run around naked like a beggar. Why would he be punished with humiliation when all he's doing is doing maintenance on his father's car? Is it not desirable to fix what they have broken during patrol?
Who knows.
He wears the olive shirt, then. Damian has gotten tired of asking 'why' and getting half answers. No answers. Half reasons. No reasons. Half a deck, no deck.
If only his mother...
He growls under his breath, rolling out from under the car and throwing the wrench to the side.
Another half deck. Had his grandfather not tried to kill him, Damian would probably return there, where things made a modicum of sense and at least he had Ubu around to explain things in a prompt fashion.
His mother is as much a fugitive of the Demon as he is. She has left to become stronger, to better resist the coming strike, and has told him to do the same.
Stronger.
He was stronger when the world made sense. Now... he feels vulnerable and alone, his father is dead, his mother is gone, and all he has is Pennyworth telling him not to bite his nails, not to stain some garments but not others, telling him to grace ridiculous questions with equally ridiculous answers, and generally dance like a monkey to a tune he can't hear.
And Grayson. He has Dick Grayson for a mentor. Another low growl escapes him as he sighs. Grayson is even worse. He's weak and ridiculous, so concerned with what others might think, so unable to take a decision and follow through the consequences, so damn delicate. He shudders with distaste. He can't believe that this man who claims to be his father's first son, this man who was trained and raised by his father, is so weak. He would not have lasted a week, even less a lifetime, in the midst of the Demon's training grounds. He would have broke under Ubu's hands, he would have bled, pierced in the dance of the hundred swords, he would have cried and despaired during the Winter of the Pit, hungry and cold and forgotten until he proved his worth.
Thousands of drills and training days. Nights of learning and being instructed by his grandfather, who would not spare him if he found him unfit.
And yet, his father had spared Grayson. Even though he would not have survived the way Damian had survived. And here he is, a subordinate to Grayson. Waiting to glimpse something, anything, that might clarify the chaotic actions of his so called brethren.
He must know. He needs to know. If his father can't teach him, is it his duty to learn from him through Grayson? Or is it better to leave his memory unspoiled, forgo the warped interpretation of his new mentor and try to find his father... elsewhere?
But where? He is not in the computers nor the data banks. Who can answer his questions, now?
He looks towards the computer, sees the sitting figure there. Grayson is examining information of their latest case. He had been conferring with that woman, the holographic head, but her presence is gone now.
He must persevere. He must become stronger. He will stay, at least until he is positive that there is nothing to learn from Grayson. And if not, then... somewhere, there must be answers. A way to bring order to this chaos that he doesn't understand, this life with blurred limits he can't figure out.
He walks towards his mentor. "Grayson, we must talk."
" You mean, 'Can we talk?'" Dick says, turning his chair towards him. He has a smile on his lips.
Damian takes a deep breath. "Why?" He will understand. He will.
"Why what?"
"Why is it 'can we talk' and not what I said. What difference does it make?"
"Well, one is a request, and the other more like an order. A rather urgent one."
"It is urgent." He frowns. "I don't understand."
"It's more polite to request instead of ordering, Damian."
Polite. "But you could refuse anyway. You could say no. It's not an order. You could send me away and I would return at a later time, or approach my father's manservant."
Dick smiles and shakes his head. Damian knows he won't get a satisfactory answer now. But he won't give up until he gets one. Just one. Any kind of answer will suffice for this first approach. "What must we urgently talk about, then?"
Why is it everything so senseless? What is the meaning of your fight? Why do you fight?
If I can't learn here, where do I go?
Why will I fight? For you? For my father? For my life?
"Tell me. About my father. About you. Tell me what he taught you."
Tell me who you are. What makes you thick. How do you compensate all your weaknesses in this senseless city, in this senseless world.
Teach me.
Dick smile becomes something else, something soft and far away.
Soft. Always so soft. He has never met anyone like Dick Grayson before.
"You're right. We should have talked about this before. But there's plenty of time... and there's a lot to tell."
"But we can start now." Damian says, then tries to be polite. "Yes?"
Dick laughs softly, and nods.
"Yes. And maybe, when we have some time and things get a bit more manageable in Gotham, we could take a trip. I think that could help me explain. Would you like that?"
A trip? with Grayson? "Would Pennyworth be coming?"
"Sure."
Well, that couldn't be worse than the Winter of the Pit. Maybe not even as bad as the dance of the hundred swords. More like... that spring swarm ritual he never really understood.
Not too bad, then. He smiles, feeling accomplished. He will stay with Grayson and he will learn what he can; try to become stronger. Try to make sense of Gotham, and Grayson, and this world so far away from his home.
Home. Wherever that is. Even though it's lost to him now, he isn't afraid. He is strong enough to find it again.
For the Prompt: DCU ; Damian ; impasse
Rating: G
Characters: Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson
Word Count: 1380+
Summary: He will understand if it is the last thing he ever does!
His olive green shirt is dirty with oil and grease. Any other shirt, Pennyworth would fuss about. Not this one, he isn't sure why.
They all look the same to him. Blue, gray, black, red. They are just shirts, not ceremonial garments or formal clothes or his Robin uniform.
He would never dare stain his Robin uniform with grease. The uniform means something to him, means he has a place, a duty, a role. The exact limits and rules are a code he has yet to crack, and it bothers him. How come he can understand his father's blueprints and notes, how come can he crack codes and riddles, but he can't figure out when it's okay to endanger a criminal's life or be strict in their physical punishment and when not? when is a crime less of a crime? when is a criminal less worthy of attention?
There seem to be secret rules for everything and yet no one is willing to share them with him. They talk about teaching him, and here he is, trying to play a game with only half a deck.
Ubu taught him how to play cards a few years ago, a secret game they shared behind his mother's and grandfather's backs. He was very good at hiding things from them.
He is very good at playing cards.
If only they would give him the rules. Why is it that nothing makes sense here in Gotham?
What bothers him the most is how they try to explain things like they barely understand them themselves. He tried asking Pennyworth why one shirt was okay and not the others, for example. All he got was that he couldn't ruin all his shirts or he would have nothing to wear. That was ridiculous. All Pennyworth had to do was get more shirts. He would have run out of clothes very quickly with his grandfather, in that case. They would always be bloodstained and ripped after training, and he was never to wear them again.
Running out of clothes. Nonsense, like he would run around naked like a beggar. Why would he be punished with humiliation when all he's doing is doing maintenance on his father's car? Is it not desirable to fix what they have broken during patrol?
Who knows.
He wears the olive shirt, then. Damian has gotten tired of asking 'why' and getting half answers. No answers. Half reasons. No reasons. Half a deck, no deck.
If only his mother...
He growls under his breath, rolling out from under the car and throwing the wrench to the side.
Another half deck. Had his grandfather not tried to kill him, Damian would probably return there, where things made a modicum of sense and at least he had Ubu around to explain things in a prompt fashion.
His mother is as much a fugitive of the Demon as he is. She has left to become stronger, to better resist the coming strike, and has told him to do the same.
Stronger.
He was stronger when the world made sense. Now... he feels vulnerable and alone, his father is dead, his mother is gone, and all he has is Pennyworth telling him not to bite his nails, not to stain some garments but not others, telling him to grace ridiculous questions with equally ridiculous answers, and generally dance like a monkey to a tune he can't hear.
And Grayson. He has Dick Grayson for a mentor. Another low growl escapes him as he sighs. Grayson is even worse. He's weak and ridiculous, so concerned with what others might think, so unable to take a decision and follow through the consequences, so damn delicate. He shudders with distaste. He can't believe that this man who claims to be his father's first son, this man who was trained and raised by his father, is so weak. He would not have lasted a week, even less a lifetime, in the midst of the Demon's training grounds. He would have broke under Ubu's hands, he would have bled, pierced in the dance of the hundred swords, he would have cried and despaired during the Winter of the Pit, hungry and cold and forgotten until he proved his worth.
Thousands of drills and training days. Nights of learning and being instructed by his grandfather, who would not spare him if he found him unfit.
And yet, his father had spared Grayson. Even though he would not have survived the way Damian had survived. And here he is, a subordinate to Grayson. Waiting to glimpse something, anything, that might clarify the chaotic actions of his so called brethren.
He must know. He needs to know. If his father can't teach him, is it his duty to learn from him through Grayson? Or is it better to leave his memory unspoiled, forgo the warped interpretation of his new mentor and try to find his father... elsewhere?
But where? He is not in the computers nor the data banks. Who can answer his questions, now?
He looks towards the computer, sees the sitting figure there. Grayson is examining information of their latest case. He had been conferring with that woman, the holographic head, but her presence is gone now.
He must persevere. He must become stronger. He will stay, at least until he is positive that there is nothing to learn from Grayson. And if not, then... somewhere, there must be answers. A way to bring order to this chaos that he doesn't understand, this life with blurred limits he can't figure out.
He walks towards his mentor. "Grayson, we must talk."
" You mean, 'Can we talk?'" Dick says, turning his chair towards him. He has a smile on his lips.
Damian takes a deep breath. "Why?" He will understand. He will.
"Why what?"
"Why is it 'can we talk' and not what I said. What difference does it make?"
"Well, one is a request, and the other more like an order. A rather urgent one."
"It is urgent." He frowns. "I don't understand."
"It's more polite to request instead of ordering, Damian."
Polite. "But you could refuse anyway. You could say no. It's not an order. You could send me away and I would return at a later time, or approach my father's manservant."
Dick smiles and shakes his head. Damian knows he won't get a satisfactory answer now. But he won't give up until he gets one. Just one. Any kind of answer will suffice for this first approach. "What must we urgently talk about, then?"
Why is it everything so senseless? What is the meaning of your fight? Why do you fight?
If I can't learn here, where do I go?
Why will I fight? For you? For my father? For my life?
"Tell me. About my father. About you. Tell me what he taught you."
Tell me who you are. What makes you thick. How do you compensate all your weaknesses in this senseless city, in this senseless world.
Teach me.
Dick smile becomes something else, something soft and far away.
Soft. Always so soft. He has never met anyone like Dick Grayson before.
"You're right. We should have talked about this before. But there's plenty of time... and there's a lot to tell."
"But we can start now." Damian says, then tries to be polite. "Yes?"
Dick laughs softly, and nods.
"Yes. And maybe, when we have some time and things get a bit more manageable in Gotham, we could take a trip. I think that could help me explain. Would you like that?"
A trip? with Grayson? "Would Pennyworth be coming?"
"Sure."
Well, that couldn't be worse than the Winter of the Pit. Maybe not even as bad as the dance of the hundred swords. More like... that spring swarm ritual he never really understood.
Not too bad, then. He smiles, feeling accomplished. He will stay with Grayson and he will learn what he can; try to become stronger. Try to make sense of Gotham, and Grayson, and this world so far away from his home.
Home. Wherever that is. Even though it's lost to him now, he isn't afraid. He is strong enough to find it again.