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The hellish nightmares have come to darken his doorstep again.
The shade of death pursues Damian relentlessly, with no regard for how many lives he saves to atone for his sins. He remains a duty-bound witness to the atrocities he has committed, each account acting as a lash against his soul, leaving a welt that cannot be soothed. Bile rises in his throat, the burn of acid parching his throat more than thirst ever could, with the flames of hellfire licking the back of his neck as he is savagely bombarded with the recollection of his victims' last moments.
Has Allah finally forsaken him?
Exhaustion dwells between his brows as Damian continues to fight his father’s noble crusade. Soon, this becomes glaringly apparent to the resident crimefighters when they engage with Damian. Dark circles line his eyes as he tries to engage Pennyworth in conversation, a couple of yawns sneaking out. When sparring with Cassandra, he endures an onslaught of attacks from Cassandra without any sign of counterattack. During a recon mission, he snaps at Tim for discussing the mission over the comms, a reedy voice edged in paranoia.
He moves in a zombie-like state, going to the motions of school-train-patrol. The hair that usually cascades down his shoulders becomes tangled with knots and matted with sweat. His half bun becomes greasy, frizzing at the slightest hint of humidity in Gotham’s sticky summer heat. A heap of limp ringlets replaces the mass of black bouncy curls that dons his head. So, after one too many saves from Batgirl and Black Bat during patrol, Brown and Cassandra confront him.
“What do you want, Fatgirl?” He snipes snidely as he tugs on the restraints confining the criminal, making sure that lackey is bound tightly.
Brown lets out an affronted huff while Cassandra attempts to steer the conversation back on track. The angry whispers of “I did not sign up for this” and “I am not here for his disrespect tonight. I already get enough of that from the rogues” is heard as clear as day despite Cassandra’s soft pleas for Brown to lower her voice.
Gritting her teeth, Brown turns around. “Would you like me to fix your hair,” she awkwardly gestures toward the clump of knots that currently reside on his head “at the Manor this Saturday?”
It is an olive branch, meant to curtail the bitterness that exists between the two crime fighters. Stephanie almost takes back the offer of reconciliation as Damian contemplates the offer but Cassandra pulls on her cape warningly.
As he is devising a biting retort to the asinine suggestion, Cassandra gazes at him pleadingly. She desperately wants her best friend and her baby brother to connect, to drop the animosity that simmers between the two of them and explodes during verbal spars. The cruel words die in his throat. He can't refuse Brown’s proposition, not with Cassandra nodding encouragingly behind her.
He sighs. “Does 10 o’clock work for you?” Cassandra fist pumps as Damian and Brown resign themselves to their shared demise.
**
The headache will not release Damian from its grip as he plods down the stairs with the intent of eating breakfast before he faces Brown. His terrarium is firmly tucked between his arms to solely act as a destressor. Digging his hands into the wet soil and modifying the environment in the contained domain usually lessens his unease. Detangling his hair last night served as a distraction from his night terrors and a way to limit the time spent with Brown. He needs sustenance if he is going to endure her cheery exuberance laced with caustic barbs for an extended period of time.
But before he can turn into the dining room, the banshee screeches, “Damian. Get your ass into the living room, pronto.”
He sighs as he makes his entrance into the living room, bypassing the table that holds the nourishment he so desperately needs to be something that can pass for cordial towards another human being. Brown sits on the comfy couch, dipping underneath her shifting weight as she sinks into the fluffy cushion. Hair clips, bobby-pins, and barrettes litter the coffee table, covering the magazines that promise accuracy in predicting your astrology sign and determining if you are a Scorpio or Sagittarius rising. A broad smile stretches across her face as she holds a brush in her left hand and a comb in her right. He sighs again, realizing that there is no escaping this.
“Must you be so crass?” He punctuates this with a flop in the space between her thighs, somehow making it look carelessly graceful.
She drops the comb on the cushion beside her and goes straight to brushing Damian’s hair. “What do you even want me to do?” Fine hair becomes stuck in the bristles of the brush, the unruly strands refusing to bend to the mere hair instrument.
"I would like French braid pigtails accented with a green ribbon." He points towards the bottle green ribbon peeking out from under the barrettes. Brown snorts in disbelief, no doubt trying to envision what the hairstyle is supposed to look like. To put her out of her misery, Damian pulls out his phone and shows her a photo of the aforementioned hairdo.
"Hmm....I'll try." Brown tugs the ribbon out from its hiding spot and starts to section his hair, using her comb to part his hair from down the middle. In an effort to rid his hair of the last of the tangles, she catches a whiff of a pleasant fragrance. She sniffs Damian's hair again, the unmistakable source of the strange scent. The words spill out of her mouth before she has the chance to restrain them.
"Is that jasmine?"
His fingers grip the terrarium tightly, refusing to release it from his grasp when he replies. "Yes. Mother used to coat my hair with jasmine oil so that I may look majestic, as a leader should."
Damian smiles, a little thing that tugs the corners of his lips, as the memory washes over him.
"Habibi," Mama murmurs as she brushes through the luscious locks, Damian nestled between her arms, "these curls are your strength. May Allah bless you in all your endeavors."
**
Kill them with kindness.
Stephanie holds on to her anger tightly, never releasing it from her grip until her body forcefully unleashes its tension and pushes her to resolve her issues with that person. She can be compared to a kettle boiling water, slowly simmering, waiting for the right moment to whistle. The boy that sits before her does not deserve the restraint she is showing. Stephanie wants him to be overwhelmed by the blistering hot water, fierce in its rage.
But…
Cass and Alfred begged her to give the little boy a chance, a child who does not know how to curb his tongue, only to lash out because the mentality of his childhood home was 'kill or be killed.'
So she swallows her tongue, scathing words begging to inflict injury on the boy who has insulted her childhood home, threatened her ex-boyfriend-slash-best friend’s life more times than she could count, and dragged up Jason's horrifying memories of the Pit.
For Cass and Alfred.
She plasters on a smile which seems to confuse the boy for a second as he directs her in the process of styling his locks. His hair smells like tinkling laughter, soft smiles, and twinkling eyes. Soft dirt is stuck underneath her fingernails as her mother points out a flower that oozes elegance. A starry, snow white flower flashes through her mind and before she knows it, the question falls from her lips.
He mumbles out his answer, avoiding eye contact with her. "Yes. Mother used to coat my hair with jasmine oil so that my hair would gain more volume so that I may look majestic, as a leader should." His posture slackens as the stress between his eyes loosens, giving it a shine she has never seen before.
Stephanie is curious so she'll bite. "How was life in Nanda Parbat?" She wants to learn more about the deranged geezer who tried to recruit Tim for his ecological crusade against the masses. It only makes sense that his grandson inherits powers from Mother Earth.
He tugs on the sleeve of his tartan pajamas. "It was always humid. The sun could be scorching the ground or the breeze could be chilling the sand but the air was always humid." Reluctance is written on his features, his attention seeming to draw away from the subject.
She needs to know more, has to learn more before he shuts down on her. How can she protect the people closest to her if she doesn't have enough information about the target? There is a bitter crease between her brows, her desire to acquire knowledge disturbing her concentration on perfecting the braids.
"Did you always know about your father?" Her voice carefully conceals the tinge of desperation that is seeping into her movements.
Damian's countenance brightens, blindingly radiant in its efforts to convey his joy. "Grandfather spoke fondly of The World's Greatest Detective and said that I have a fine legacy to live up to." His exuberance dims as he recalls a subject that he rather not remember. "Mother told me that I'll do well to forget the stories involving my father." Pink lips twist into a frown as the skin between his eyes pinches. "His ideals did not align with ours."
He sighs as bright green eyes begin to lose their luster. "I envied this world, filled with valor and costumes, for the longest time." The yearning is painstakingly evident in his tone. "I thought that the world you live in must have been quite peaceful to attempt to uphold a rule as difficult as sparing every life you come across, victim and villain alike." His hands grip the stretched sleeves of his tartan pajamas. "To be able to announce to the world, 'I am here' and clash with individuals whose sole intent was to ruin citizens' lives."
Damian's vacant gaze is directed at the ottoman. "In the world I lived in, the ecosystem was very harsh." His voice adapts a raspy quality. "I had to evolve thick skin and a steely resolve to survive under the League's tutelage. Hiding among the shadows and watching the life drain out the eyes of your latest victim was customary for me."
Wrapping his arms around himself, he continues. "I wanted to become my mother's indestructible spear, infallible in the face of danger and piercing through her foes that dare lay a hand against her." Damian appears despondent, picking at his sleeves. "She was the only person that anchored me to that lifestyle." His eyes become razor-sharp, so scorching that the ottoman would have been toast. "I was not able to achieve my goal."
Her brain is imploding as she tries to wrap her mind around the wealth of information she is given. Her heart aches for the child who bore a hero worship so strong that he is blind to the man's faults and a mother who doesn’t value his well-being but her brain whispers cloyingly about all the torment he razed on her loved ones. Doubt clouds her mind as the child before her becomes the demon that delivers harm to others without restraint. The heart's clambers fall silent in the wake of the mind's unrelenting logic.
You can't trust him.
There's barely a stutter in her motions as she continues to plait his hair. "How was the food there? Do you have any favorite dishes?" Damian appears to relax at this statement and chatter streams through the room with him informing her of all the delicacies Nanda Parbat had to offer.
A cruel smirk materializes on her face, maring her lovely features.
And bury them with a smile.
**
He doesn't know why he decides to trust her.
Maybe it's the loneliness that threatens to claw out his organs as he is forced to watch the only people that care about him attend to their responsibilities, promising to make out time for him but never managing to in the end. Maybe it's the whispers of 'demon brat' and 'hell spawn' haunt his footsteps, their cruel laughter ringing in his ears. Or perhaps, his insomnia has finally gotten the better of him, loosening his tongue and opening his heart to new possibilities.
Purple blotchy bruises sag with the weight that rests on Damian's shoulders. "What kinds of pastries are served at the al Ghul residence?" Brown snickers as she adds another thought. "Do they even serve pastries at all?"
Damian flinches at the mean-spirited laughter but he must be overreacting again. This is the first time someone has asked about his home, the manor's deathly still silence cannot compare to the constant chatter between servants and the pitter-patter of feet in the compound. He will not ruin this with his inane reaction.
Brown means well. “Basbousa was commonplace at our dinners.” Damian smiles, viridian green eyes alight with a soft sort of contentment that could only manifest in the face of a pleasant memory.
Sticky palms and flour-dusted limbs, his mama wipes the syrup from his rosy cheeks as the leavened sweet rises in the sun baked oven.
Surprise shatters Brown’s carefully constructed tone. “Your family allowed sweets at the table.” Her arms flap about, trying to emphasize her point. “I thought that y’all would be health nuts considering the fact that the organization promotes eco-terrorism.”
“We can appreciate a sugared confection that graces our palate.” At Brown’s incredulous look, he concedes. “Mother insisted that one sweet was served with every meal.”
Brown’s eyes look as if they will pop out of her head. “Talia has a sweet tooth.” Shock flows through her movements, causing her to double back and redo a plait that appeared crooked. “None of those overly processed high fructose corn syrup rubbish you Americans try to pass off as culinary confections. Honeyed syrups fashioned from sun sweet berries candied these dishes.”
She laughs, hands inadvertently tugging at his curls in an effort to quell the tremors that shake her limbs. “No need to get defensive with me.” Both hands smoothly rope the ribbon through his hair. “I’m just shocked, that’s all.”
“What was your mother like?” Curiosity colors her tone as she pushes forward. “Bruce never talks about her, only that she’s an enemy that needs to be avoided on sight.”
A stabbing pain shoots through his body, reminding him once again that he will never have the white picket fence family or parents who at least act civil to each other. Instead he has one trying to slice the other’s throat while said other preaches justice, wielding excessive force as his weapon of choice from his blood slicked hands.
His fingers curl around the terrarium until his knuckles appear bone white, a startlingly contrasting with the deep tan of copper skin. “Tall.” His skin begins to itch, impossible to scratch. “Regal.” A sprig of amaryllis sprang from the terrarium. “Stunning.” Lips twist into a smile that looks painful to maintain. “With compassion to spare.”
“Care to elaborate.” Brown moves closer to catch his words. “She’s my mother who raised me to the best of her abilities.” He drags his fingernails through the soil packed in the planter. “That’s it.”
“But you said that she wanted you to become her weapon.” Confusion laces her tone. “How can she be a good mother?”
More dirt slips beneath his fingernails.
“Why are you so insistent that she’s a good mother?” Concern bleeds through her voice as she loops the combed curls to form a braid. “She allowed you to continue on this path so she can’t be all that great.”
“Why do you insist that she’s not?” He retorts, sharp and prickly around the edges. “Unlike Father, she prefers to spend time with me.”
Soothing Arabic lyrics chimes in the air as Mama sings a hypnotic lullaby in the garden where they would gaze at the starry night sky.
“You’re mistaken, Brown. I wanted to become her tool wielded in battle.” He shakes the dirt from his hands. Pennyworth will be displeased by the mess he’s creating. “Not her.”
He shakes his head at these thoughts. ”Besides, speaking to Father is like speaking to a brick wall, firm and unyielding.” He sits up, ramrod straight. “There is no point disturbing Father from his work.”
Brown chuckles and replies, “Yeah, that’s Bruce for you.” But he’s seen her hold a pleasant conversation with him, Father cracking a smile at her jokes. When he speaks to his father, conversing devolves into petty arguments, Father believing that the League’s programming is embedded too deep for him to change and Damian disenchanted by the man behind the costume. Father’s judgment is heavy, adding another layer to his fiendish nightmares of redemption.
It’s easier to avoid the other instead of acknowledging what their relationship is, irredeemable.
"Mother taught me everything I know." His demeanor softens as he traces patterns in the dirt. "How to bake."
The vinyl record player hums as Mama dances across the kitchen floor, the ingredients magically appearing in their designated bowl. Wiping the batter from his cheeks that ache from grinning, she beams at him.
"How to perfect a skill." Crescent shaped grooves appear in the thick woven carpet.
"My darling boy," she exclaims, eyes twinkling due to the fact that he recited the entirety of the Odyssey in its native language, Greek.
"How to speak up." His shoulders hunch as if he is trying to curl in on himself.
Mama's screams echo off the walls of the al Ghul compound, screaming from the hell the Lazarus Pit inflicts on her psyche. Damian wants to run to her but Mama said never to leave the room unless she comes to get him so he remains under his bed, trembling.
He grips the loose threads of the shag carpet, hoping to regain his composure. "How your talents bear fruit."
He stood in horror as his amah bleeds out before him, his katana coated in blood as Mam—no Mother praises his fine swordsmanship.
A stem of begonia sprouts from the terrarium. "How to assert authority."
Damian is eight when he watches the servant girl he befriended be whipped again and again and again, Mother and Grandfather sneering at her for daring to act familiar with him. He bites back his pleas for them to stop and wallows in the sight of his own uselessness, if only he hadn't spoken to her, if only he hadn't encouraged her love of feeding the strays that wandered into the compound, if only—
Damian's head jerks up as Brown's voice is calling for him. "Assert authority?" Her tone is sharp and accusing in her pointed anger. "Isn't that what you tried to do with Tim." Brown seems furious, heat stifling the atmosphere between them, but oddly it is not directed at him. "So, it is your mother who taught you all of that nonsense."
"Everything Bruce said is true." She throws these words as if they are blades and although their intended target is not him, they are buried in his flesh all the same. "She's psychotic. How can she allow her son to suffer under the abuse of her father's tyranny? To add insult to injury, she doubles down on the maltreatment, giving tips to prolong his torture." The projectile pierces his heart. "You're just a kid! Why should you have to endure such awful, grueling training?!" Her voice takes an incredulous tone, blatantly showcasing her disgust for his mother's actions . "And for what, so that you'll become her masterpiece. Her paragon. Her Alexander."
A bolt of lightning shoots down his back, freezing him in his place. Why do these words affect him so much? He knows that Mother and Grandfather abused him, after Grayson jumped through hoops trying to dismantle what they instilled in him, showing him that unconditional love can be free with no strings attached. He has been their puppet for so long that he should be glad that he has the chance to criticize them without a whip painting the canvas that is his skin. So why does his breath still hitch at any slight against his mother? The need to revile Brown intensifies as she continues her impassioned rant.
"—unfeeling, treacherous brute—"
His digits start to imperceptibly twitch.
"—manipulative harpy—"
Dark storm clouds drowned bright green irises.
"—two faced bitch—"
A bland grimace contorts into a ghastly scowl.
"—sorry excuse for a mother—"
He snaps.
"Don't presume that you know what's best for me." His tone takes a cruel lilt, uncaring of the damage it will inflict on its target. "At least my mother was there to raise me, despite her methods being deemed as reprehensible by society. Your father couldn't wait to leave the home he created with your mother, preferring to gallivant across Gotham, begging for the great Batman to solve his riddles because the life he forged wasn't enticing enough—"
A sharp inhale of breath cut through his assessment.
No.
Contempt flowed out, twisting his words into knives that can rip apart flesh. He must correct this error quickly before—
Brown exhales.
**
The child is pure evil.
The devil incarnate. How dare he say such things to her face. What does Cass and Alfred see in this filthy little mongrel? Why must he drag up the past that she and her mother worked so hard to overcome? Her eyes tear up as she processes the venom he just spat. What does he know of the pain her mother suffered? She suffered? And yet he had the nerve to speak on such matters, as if he has the authority, the jurisdiction, the right.
The lid rattles as condensation creeps on the surface of the shiny red kettle. Red hot rage blurs her vision. Her hands tremble with spite surging in her veins. Bitterness that was left far too long to simmer whistled, taking the form of scathing words.
“Bruce doesn’t want you.” She spreads her arms, a broad smile plastered on her face. “How ironic. He makes a whole career of collecting kids and the one that shares his blood, he throws away. Tosses away. Like trash.” She titters as if she’s sharing an inside joke with him. “He avoids you because he doesn’t want to face his failure. You’re too broken to fix with pretty words and a costume that promises redemption.”
Stephanie laughs, a warped sound that eerily echoes off the living room ceiling.
“Your mother disowned you for choosing your father’s crusade over her reign of terror.” Stephanie folds her arms, adapting a thinking pose, her finger tapping her chin. “Yet you still love her if the stories you tell hold any merit. She abused you and now she doesn’t want you.” Her smile turns cold.
“Her perfect weapon became another failed experiment.”
Finishing the braid and therefore the hairstyle, she states, “Your mother abandoned you. Your father avoids you. What’s the common denominator?” The last of the green ribbon lopes through his hair as she reaches for the rubber bands to tie the pigtails. "You’re a—“
A sniffle pierced the air, obliterating the remnants of any lingering animosity in its path.
Fuck.
**
He doesn’t know why he decided to trust her.
It's as if cotton is stuffed in his ears, muffling the sound of stammered apologies and pleas for forgiveness. Damian is still engulfed in the flames of her wrath, lacerations emerging on his still pumping heart. He doesn't know how he feels cold, achieving hypothermia with his digits appearing blue while third degree burns from the other night still mutilate his olive toned skin. Shock, pain, and fear flooded his senses as he incurs more damage from the words than the weapons wielded against him during patrol.
He knows.
He knows that his parents do not want him. Do not care for him. Do not love him. Damian knows that he couldn't mold himself to Mother's vision. Her perfect Alexander. No matter how many times he sheds his blood and resets his bones, it will never be enough. Because he couldn't let go of the pesky emotions his mother cultivated in him when he was younger, that reminded her so much of his father.
Yet all his father sees is his mother in him. He wants Damian to see the light, the supposed evil in his ingrained League of Shadows training should be buried deep within him. He refuses to understand that Damian had to choose to live that way or be condemned to a restless mind that fosters the call for insomnia. If he didn't conform to their mindset, he would not be able to live with death, already inviting him into its cold and loving embrace.
Now he is told that death is the coward's way out and Damian will not beg, not now—not ever, for forgiveness so thus begins the vicious cycle.
Confess, repent, atone.
He labors in his efforts to abide by these three words. They’re his hope, his key to salvation, to turn over a new leaf and grow. To become a champion of life instead of a butcher. But Father sits comfortably on his throne fashioned by sanctimony and pietism as Damian's hands are sanded to the bone in an attempt to save all the lives he has encountered and his legs can't support the weight of the lives he has taken along with his verdict, heavy in its righteousness. Condemn, condemn, condemn are reflected in Father's ice cold irises as he scrambles to right his wrongs.
No rest for the wicked.
In Father's eyes, Damian will always remain the demon who claims to be his son, masquerading in human skin.
As he begins to register Brown's frantic worries, he realizes that his limbs feel leaden. The bags under his eyes feel swollen, tears adding to the irritation that area suffers due to sleep deprivation. Damian finds himself staring brokenly ahead at the gray ottoman, emerald eyes glazed as he begins to shake. Snot bubbles in his nose as he sighs patchily, a wet noise that escapes his mouth.
He is tired.
All Damian wants Brown to do is go away, away, away.
**
"I apologize for inconveniencing you."
These are the first words she hears from Damian after his period of silence, of self-imposed exile from the outside world. While she puzzles over the meaning of these words, he quickly scrambles from his seat, his plaited mane smacking Stephanie in the face with the speed of someone desperate to leave the conversation. Stephanie can’t let this end this way. She had been unnecessarily cruel, poking at the boy's insecurities with no regard for mercy.
Apologizing is the least she could do.
Tugging on his arm, she is overwhelmed with the need to apologize, taking over all her senses until she sees surprise flicker across Damian's expression. Then she realizes that his body is hurtling towards hers.
Quickly.
Oh well.
Guess she used a bit too much force.
As they collapse into a heap of tangled limbs on the couch, the soil-packed terrarium spills onto the shag carpet, a nightmare of a mess that Alfred will hopefully clean with minimal scolding from him. Damian’s arm smacks her face in an effort to remove himself from the situation while her leg remains trapped under the cushion with Damian's weight adding to the mix. After they freed their arms and legs from the jungle gym they created, Damian looks like he's about to speed off. Stephanie can’t have that happening.
"Wait." Her voice comes out as a desperate plea.
Damian stops and faces her, averting his eyes from her gaze. But he stays, waiting for her to get on with it. If only she knows what it is. She probably should have planned out her apology the moment she realized that she had hurt Damian's feelings. And now, they are sitting in awkward silence which slowly stifles whatever courage she found to speak aloud. Damian makes a move to leave again and she couldn't let it end like this—
"I'm sorry." Her voice cracks in an effort to convey her sincerity and as she tries to clear her throat, the words fall out like a waterfall. "I'm so, so sorry. I had no right to be so cruel and mean and vindictive and spiteful and malicious and you probably don't want to be hearing me describe myself as all these adjectives but what I did was wrong, so wrong and I realize that I was poking at a sensitive subject without considering your feelings on the matter and oh I probably shouldn't be mentioning it right now, and have I mentioned that I'm so sorry—"
Damian's hand covered Stephanie's mouth.
As if calming a spooked deer, he slowly removes his hand from Stephanie's lips. He hurriedly scampers to the other end of the couch, chest moving up and down rapidly. Now, he looks like the one in need of soothing. Just when she starts inching over to the opposite end to pacify him, he speaks.
"I accept your apology. Brown." His voice gains strength as he continues. "Now stop acting all flustered at once. Do not forget that I also played a role in this." Stephanie wants to alleviate the pain that rings so clearly in his tone. She looks down, her guilt ridden conscience forbidding her from making eye contact. "But you didn't deserve that." Sagging under the weight of remorse, she didn't catch the flash of surprise on Damian's face.
"It's not your fault." His sound twists into something unrecognizable to Stephanie, from the boy who is always brimming with confidence. "I have a nasty habit of pouncing on a person’s greatest weaknesses." He tucks his body into a ball, shielding his expression from her. "And I hate myself for being this way."
**
Shocked.
That is the only word Stephanie can think of to encompass the torrent of emotions that are shredding through her right now. This child can be cocky, borderline arrogant when it comes to solving cases. Not to mention his attitude towards the rest of the BatClan. He treats them as if they are incompetent fools who are just wasting his father's time with their ineptitude. Refusing to call them by their actual names, instead he comes up with these clever but god-awful nicknames to snub them. How can he, the proud son of the World's Greatest Detective and the Daughter of the Demon, hate the temperament that has brought him this far?
Then, she sees his tiny hands squeezing his arms so that he can hold his position.
His tiny hands.
And his small feet. A tad too big green eyes that swallow up a good portion of his face. Rosy cheeks that flushed due to the tear tracks that framed his face. Snot bubbling in his nose as he tries to sniff it back up his nostrils.
No.
He's just a child. With the weight of the world resting on lithe shoulders as he tries to prove himself to his parents who maintain massive expectations. He is meant to be the best of both worlds, greatness lining his footsteps. But he suffers under the crippling disappointment of both, deemed unworthy of his title and unwilling to acknowledge his efforts in championing their causes.
The root of his disparaging.
Damian thinks that he is not wanted.
She cannot let this stand.
Not with all the love Cass, Alfred, and Dick have for him that that flows from their person.
Not when she’s finally beginning to see what they see.
Stephanie reaches out to touch his hand but he shrinks away from her. "I'm an asshole." The words taste sour on her tongue because she hasn't referred to herself as such in a long time. "I never considered what you were going through and that makes me a jerk." Damian’s head slightly tilts to the side, his features scrunching up until a smile curves on his lips.
"But that doesn't excuse your parents." The corners of his lips tilt down. "The way they treated you, continue to treat you is shitty." She shrugs her shoulders, unapologetic in the face of Damian's apparent skepticism. "You don't deserve to be burdened by all their crap and ignored just because you didn't follow their orders. You're a kid, and kids are allowed to screw up. Bruce and Talia are wrong because their love should be unconditional, not contingent on your obedience."
As she begins to wrap up her mini-rant, she notices that Damian unfurls his limbs and gazes at her, something akin to admiration.
"You're an amazing kid. I'm sorry for the way we treated you but I'm glad that Alfred and Cass saw just how great you are."
Goosebumps break out on her skin when he touches her palm. "I'm sorry too." He shifts on the fluffy cushion as he forges ahead. "For all the mean things I have said, the actions I took against Drake, and the general upheaval I have caused." He vaguely bows his head, a gesture to show how truly sorry he is. "I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me."
A grin breaks out on Stephanie's face as she grabs him, encircling him in her arms. "Of course I forgive you." She looks sheepishly down at him. "Although I can't accept the one about Tim because it's not my apology to receive." Stephanie squeezes his shoulders. "But other than that, I forgive you."
At this angle, she notes that Damian had eye-bags that could carry a travel size suitcase and creases furrowing his brow. Stephanie releases the tension weighing her down, letting her body flop onto the couch, taking Damian down with her. "We're going to sleep." She punctuates this statement by tightening her arms around Damian, letting him use her chest as a pillow.
Damian snorts softly, the sound soothing Stephanie’s soul as he snuggles into her. The fatigue lining his lids closes them shut. His chest begins to slowly rise and fall with the Sandman thanking him for his patronage. Stephanie watches his expression smooth over until all the creases on his face disappear. The rhythmic breathing slowly lulls her to sleep, a comfy mess of limbs painting a cozy picture on the couch.
**
Alfred walks into the living room to check on his charges.
Master Damian didn’t come to the dining room for breakfast so he’s a bit worried that his young ward might develop an unpleasant attitude and lash out at Miss Stephanie.
A delightful surprise greets him on the couch.
Oh my.
Miss Stephanie and Master Damian are a mass of arms and legs that exudes warmth, comfort, and tranquility. He drapes the bright red afghan over their hodgepodge of appendages, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards. He glances down at the floor to retrieve Damian's planter.
Bollocks.
It's going to be a pain to get dirt out of shag carpeting.
**
In his slumber, when the hands of his victims drag him to a place decorated with fire and brimstone, Brown pulls him up with Cassandra acting as cheerleader, egging her on. Grayson is fluttering about the picnic blanket, worry lining his brows, as Pennyworth prepares the teapot. As Damian becomes situated on the woven material, he sighs, taking in the buzzing bees pollinating the blooming flowers and their sweet scents.
Blue skies and sunshine greet him, granting him the peace he needs to doze serenely.