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Damian barely spares a glance at Jason as the older man gently places a mug of hot chocolate in front of him and settles himself in the seat across the table with a his own mug of tea in hand. For a few minutes Jason alternates between watching the scenes of a lazy day pass by on the street in front of the shop and studying his brother as Damian sketches with singular focus, brow furrowed, the tip of his tongue poking out slightly between his lips as he angles his head to the side and moves his charcoal stick briskly across the paper.
It's become an after-school ritual of sorts, one that Jason doesn't quite understand. For the last few weeks, Damian has been spending most of his afternoons at the shop, seated at a table in the cafe's window, drawing. The first couple of times, Jason raised an eyebrow but otherwise ignored the boy as Damian ignored him. When the visits continued, Jason brought cocoa as an unspoken "welcome," because hey, they were both supposed to be trying.
That's when he realized that Damian's drawings were still always variations on the same tired themes: Batman, Robin, the psychopaths that made up Gotham's pantheon of villains, warriors from the League of Assassins, and the other birds and bats. There were even a few sketches of the now-retired Nightwing throughout the ages – Discowing and Finger Stripes included.
Jason has yet to see anything representative of life past the day Bruce left Damian in Central City. Not even a sketch of The Flash.
As difficult as the kid makes things, Jason can't help but feel for him, even if a headache is usually his reward. Weighing the option of continuing to be ignored against being the target of Damian's wrath, he finally asks, "Have you finished your homework?"
Damian's "Tt" is as derisive as always. "I thought Barry was the one filling the role of 'father.'"
"I'm just trying to make conversation." Taking a sip of his tea, Jason's gaze drifts back to the street, and he watches as a bicycle nearly collides with a man on a cellphone too engrossed in his conversation to look both ways before stepping into the road. Choice words are exchanged before the the cyclist speeds off, leaving the man on the phone to resume his conversation -- and narrowly avoid a turning car. Oh, Darwin, where art thou?
"There's no requirement that you do," Damian replies, breaking into Jason's thoughts, "In fact, you are more than welcome not to."
Fighting the urge to massage his temples, which would only show weakness, Jason just sighs and tries to enjoy his drink. Despite appearances to the contrary, he and Damian are actually doing better. Granted most of that still involves giving each other a wide berth, but at least every conversation doesn't turn into a yelling match. But while he has no expectation that his relationship with Damian will be as close as Dick's, Jason does wish they could do better than just tolerating each other. It's that desire that keeps him in his seat, still trying to engage, rather than walking away. Besides, you're in my damn bookstore, so deal. It's a petty thought, so what he actually says is, "Is it really so bad? Living a normal life?"
"Maybe you're too old to swing from the rooftops, but don't include me in your picket-fence retirement plans." The boy's hand stills as he turns the full weight of his glare on the older man. "Not everyone desires to run away to a nothing town in nowhere America and bake cookies for bake sales for fun."
Sucking in a breath and letting it out slowly, Jason shakes his head tiredly. "You know, when I was kid, I would have given anything for the life you have a chance to live. No responsibilities other than to go to school, do my homework, play video games or hang out with friends, and just be a kid. Maybe empty the dishwasher every so often or fold laundry. It seems like heaven compared to the reality."
Damian just looks at Jason with scorn. "Well, there is no one disputing the fact that I am not you. I'm not choosing between a wretched addict of a mother and a roof over my head. I'm choosing between my destiny and a meaningless existence. This is not the life I was supposed to lead." The boy's eyes are blazing when he finishes, the lines of tension in his otherwise perfectly still body screaming his anger.
Pointedly ignoring the slight against his mother, Jason still can't help but feel his own twinge of annoyance at the implicit dismissal as "meaningless" of everything he's built for himself since leaving Gotham. Damian would have more respect for him if he was still a crime boss and a murderer. Tersely he asks, "And what life is that?"
Sitting up straight, the boy falls easily back into his imperious air. Haughtily, he says, "I am Damian Wayne, heir to the Demon's Head and to Bruce Wayne. Sole heir to the cowl. I am supposed to be by Father's side. I am supposed to be his son and his apprentice -- the Robin who will one day be The Batman. That is who I am supposed to be!" Damian hisses acerbically, managing to keep his voice low despite his fury. "I am not supposed to be here, in the middle of nowhere, a schoolboy surrounded by children with hopes no greater than to 'get the girl' or make the soccer team – who have no concept of what it means to actually be someone or do something great beyond getting good marks on an exam or winning a trophy at a swim meet!"
"Jesus, you're a child, Damian! The idea of global domination at your age should involve two genetically-altered lab rats, not Lex Luthor or space aliens. Your main problem should be what you want for dinner, not whether you can disarm a bomb...." Jason chokes on the end of that sentence, visibly needing to steady himself before he can continue. "Not whether you can disarm a bomb fast enough to survive until tomorrow." Throat suddenly parched, he takes several gulps of his tea before he can again swallow easily.
Damian watches him through narrowed eyes. "Do not project your own failings on me," the boy says dryly, catching and holding the older man's gaze.
It's Jason who finally looks away, feeling more weary than he has in a long time. He's not sure why he tries. Staring out the window and then back down into his mug, he asks, "So why are you still here? You can leave whenever you want – clearly no one is locking you in your room and keeping you from going out. You hate me; even though you're here, all of this is obviously nothing to you," he says, gesturing around the shop. "Say the word, and I'm sure Barry would have you back in Gotham before you could blink."
Instead of answering, Damian returns to his sketch. For several minutes, the only sound is that of charcoal brushing rapidly over the page, the quick, aggressive strokes a manifestation of the boy's inner turmoil. Jason's given up on getting a response when the boy abruptly says, "Richard is owed an apology." As am I, he thinks but refuses to say.
"You're staying for Dick? Until Bruce apologizes for something he said four months ago?" Jason's incredulous expression is lost to Damian's focus on his drawing. "You really think that's going to happen?"
Damian's teeth dig into his lower lip hard enough to leave marks in the skin as his nostrils flare. "Father was wrong. What he said about Wallace's sacrifice was arrogant, ignorant, hurtful, and uncalled for."
And he said it to Barry, Jason wants to interject, highlighting that Dick's feelings were collateral damage in Bruce's attack on his partner – when the asshole accused Barry of being responsible for his own nephew's death. Internally he seethes, but he remains silent.
"I am almost certain he knew of Richard's presence at Barry's that night," Damian continues. "Father has been waiting for Richard to return to Gotham since he staged his escape from Spyral and that Bertinelli woman triggered the Somnus satellite wiping the world's knowledge of Nightwing's secret identity. When he didn't.... Suffice it to say, it was unnecessary for us to attend that gala, and as Barry correctly pointed out, Bruce Wayne should not be showing up on a lowly CSI's doorstep. I can only conclude that Father knew where Richard would be and came here to confront him about his new life."
Which all but confirms what we already believed, Jason thinks ruefully. He can't be sure that Bruce wasn't tracking him down given the stunt he pulled at the Manor, or that The Bat hadn't found out about his relationship with Barry and decided to confront his fellow Leaguer in the most shocking way possible hoping to humiliate Jason, but either way, they all knew it was highly unlikely Bruce just happened to be in the neighborhood that night. Muttering a curse, he runs a hand roughly through his hair and rubs at his eyes. He'd really hoped he was done with Bruce's mind games.
"I'm sure Father will contact me when he realizes his mistake – that he needs Robin, and his son, at this side," Damian says as he resumes sketching.
"Damian," Jason says quietly, cursing whoever made him the voice of reason, "Bruce abandoned you rather than apologize for hurting Dick – rather than say he was sorry to his own son. If you're waiting for him to come back on bended knee and tell you he loves you and ask you to come back to Gotham with him...." He pauses, sighing. "It's not going to happen. No one is important enough to your father for him to admit he was wrong. Not even you."
The snap of Damian's charcoal stick seems to echo in the silence that follows Jason's declaration. His lips twisting in a sneer, the boy growls, "If you have finished talking, you can leave."
"Damian...," Jason starts, holding up his hands placatingly.
"Shut. Up." The boy's voice is low and deadly, his eyes gleaming.
"I'm sorry. What I said was uncalled for." The easy apology seems to startle the boy, and it really pisses Jason off. Being with Barry has taught him something that being Robin or Red Hood or anything else associated with The Bat and Bruce Wayne never could: that it's not weakness to admit fault and take responsibility. Jason's right, they both know it, but there's no reason to twist that knife; he's intimately aware of what it feels like to realize your father (or father figure) couldn't care less about you beyond selfish ends – to know you're not worth a few measly words of contrition to set things right. Jason takes a deep breath, feeling Damian's eyes boring into him as he holds it for a few moments before letting it out. Resting his head in his hands, he says, "What you want from him shouldn't be that hard to give. You're his son."
"Your point, Peters."
The older man takes a minute to figure out exactly what that is, trying to think of something that has a chance of getting through to Damian. Finally he says, "You were supposed to be an assassin and yet you stopped killing to be Robin. You were supposed to be Robin, but you gave that up to be Dick's brother when you thought he needed you. You were supposed to be Bruce's son and the heir to the cowl, arguably your destiny, but when push came to shove, there was something more important than both."
"Again, your point." Damian's hands are white around the remains of his charcoal.
My point? My point is that maybe you're lying to yourself about why you're still here. That's what Jason wants to say, but he knows Damian won't hear it. Instead he gestures to the sketch pad with its endless drawings of Robin and Batman and the violence of Gotham City. "My point is...I don't know, maybe that you should try drawing yourself as you would look if you weren't supposed to be anything. I get it, I wanted this life and you didn't. But I promise you, underneath what everyone else thinks and believes and tells you to be or tells you you are, there's a whole other person who's just trying to be you." Seeing a customer approach the counter, Jason rises and indicates that he'll be there in a moment. "You're a good artist, Damian. Did anyone ever say you were supposed to be?" Clasping the boy's shoulder and offering a smile that he hopes is less grimace and more encouragement, Jason steps away to help the woman at the register.
Scoffing, Damian turns his focus back to his sketch pad, flipping to a new sheet. Instinct starts the charcoal stick brushing across the page, the outlines of a distinctive billowing cape quickly taking form before he registers what he's drawing. It's with effort that he stops, hand hovering over the paper uncertainly. He pretends like he can't feel Jason's eyes on him as he carefully places the charcoal on the table and reaches for his mug. Taking a long sip of the cocoa, he stares at the page with as much disdain as he can muster for his so-called brother and his ridiculous ideas.
It doesn't change the fact that he's unable to imagine a future for himself that's anything other than shades of black and grey.