Work Text:
meta-human
met · a · hu · man
/ ˈme-tə · hyü-mən /
- Persons and/or abilities beyond normal human limits
- Referring to anyone with extranormal powers, not exclusive to humans
- Often seen as more or less than human
code-switch
Hafid mourns for the Urdu that used to flow so readily off his tongue.
English is harsh.
Abrasive.
Like paper crinkling.
With its —ing for action, its —s for many, and its —ed for past tense.
It's the only language that anyone speaks in Gotham, blue eyes looking expectantly down at him, waiting for an answer to their inquiries. They don't know that it takes a moment for Hafid to process their words, the sound of nails dragging against a chalkboard, and then another to compose his thoughts.
His ponderings all run in a warm orange, like the morning sun's rays that provide a balmy heat in Nanda Parbat. A string of Nastaliq flies through his mind, all conveying thoughts that want to be said but it's tricky, finding the right English word to convey the depth of his reasoning.
The first and only time he used a blend of Urdu and English words to convey a response to a Bat-related investigation, blue eyes bore down on him, bewilderment swimming in their depths.
He had to resort to pidgin English for Grayson to understand him and explain to the rest of the brood.
He refuses to ever feel that way again, like he is an outsider.
Other.
He will always saturate his thoughts in blue before he speaks again.
Everything from his past needs to be doused in blue to match the dreary atmosphere that envelopes Gotham.
As the orange that crowns his life bleeds away, so does his former name.
Hafid is the name the servants and their children used when addressing the heir to the Demon's Head. Hafid is the name the children shouted when he and the servants' children ran across the courtyard, screaming who’s it. Hafid is the name that Mama would wish sweet dreams unto and greet every morning.
Damian is the special nickname Mama bestowed upon him. It is for when he translated a passage out of the Iliad perfectly or sliced an arm clean off, leaving a flawless incision between the forged bone and sinew, a training dummy. Damian is the name Mama called him as she reminisced about her torrid past with the man who was more human than bat in all the ways that mattered. Damian is the name Mama bellowed when she got into shouting matches with Grandfather about the way the organization was run.
Always her little prince.
He's already drowning, suffocating under the name Damian with all the weight and expectations it carries, that he feels as if he is other.
In order to stamp out this feeling, the incessant needling under his skin at the thought of being other , he would mold into the perfect little أمريكي boy until Hafid ceases to exist.
Until he can only exist as Damian.
He will mourn the existence of the half Pakistani-Chinese boy that was constantly addressed by his proper title, ran around the courtyard with his companions, and was the recipient of Mama's gentle affection.
But he is in Gotham now.
And Damian will do what he must to adjust.
↔
Black bodies should not exist in white spaces.
This is the impression Duke gets when he first enters Gotham Academy with the legendary Bruce Wayne.
The principal eyes Duke with distaste, his outfit consisting of his classic Air Force Ones, a pair of worn Levi's 505s, and a checkered flannel slightly concealing Tupac’s face, before Bruce slips him a piece of paper.
Apparently that amount of money offered is enough to expedite the enrollment process. Duke can start classes on Friday but it’s for the best that he rests this weekend and gets a fresh start on Monday.
“Don’t forget to look over our uniform policy,” she intones, sickly sweet, before the door slams shut.
As Bruce prattles about the intricacies of the school and what makes certain people tick, Duke finally allows himself to stew in his emotions.
He has never felt so small in his life.
Growing up in a predominantly Black neighborhood spoiled him. He is aware that marginalization existed, in the vestiges of his mind where a little girl has still not been laid to rest, but it was never so blatantly showcased.
There is no refuge at Gotham Academy.
It wants to chew him up and spit him out alive with his dignity and self esteem smarting.
And he can’t run back to the Narrows. With his parents permanently booked in the ER due to Jokerized venom, there are no legal tethers tying him to his home. No one can afford an extra mouth to feed quite like Gotham’s glitzy prince, Bruce Wayne.
And yet—
He doesn’t want to return to Gotham Academy.
He wants to run
Far away
Until he is not here anymor—
“Are you listening, Duke?” Mr. Wayne asks, his eyes filled with concern.
Duke pastes a full watt smile.
“Of course, Mr. Wayn—“The infamous Gothamite eyes him, the blue depths filled with soft reproach. “Bruce.”
Duke prays that the exhaustion that comes with the sudden bigotry he’s been saddled with will become easier to bear as time goes by.
One step at a time.
**
copout
**
palatable
The dichotomy still exists from the days that Father's parents were alive with the dilapidated buildings providing shade for the sleek mansions to display their glitz and glamor.
“He’s still so handsome despite that absolutely dreadful color of his,” the society women titter at Father's gala as they pinch his cheeks and ruffle his hair, their digits not unlike a vulture's claws.
If only they would aim for his eyes so he can escape this event with an excuse good enough to please Father.
Their words ring in his ears as Damian contemplates buying the Fair & Lovely cream at the grocery store while Alfred contemplates which barrel of apples will last longer.
Fairer skin grants him the privilege—credibility— respect.
A porcelain guise is much more preferable to bare brown earthenware.
Acceptance is at hand.
↕
“Misss...." Aaliyah drags out, her mahogany forearms accented by her sunshine yellow dress. "Ma—" Her hands slap down onto her thighs. " —ry," She claps her hands together.
"Mack—Mack—Mack," Aaliyah chants the nursery rhyme in Duke's ear.
Duke does his best to keep up with her as the clapping game speeds up with the nursery rhyme. It will be embarrassing if he falls behind. After all, he is the person that taught Aaliyah the game.
With the sun peeking out of its cloudy prison and cicadas buzzing in the shadow of Tracey Towers, it looks to be another good day in the neighborhood.
Shots ring as an errant drunkard barrels through the Narrows, a semi automatic clutched in his hand. The cops return fire as they hurtle down the street, the thump of wheels careening over potholes alerting the citizens of their presence.
As the residents are rushing to make potential targets disappear, the old urging the young to race back into the lobby, a stray bullet catches Aaliyah's carotid.
Blood explodes onto the pavement and all Duke can see was Aaliyah's eyes meeting his, shocked, before they roll back.
It is as if someone cut the strings, her body collapsed and limbs splayed out like a starfish, visible for all the world to see.
She was marked for death the moment the bullet hit her.
The man stunk of booze when they arrested him a couple of blocks later. Bloodshot eyes greet Duke as the police escort the man to the back of their vehicle.
A white man who escaped with his life.
Aaliyah’s body is left to rot in the middle of the sidewalk for six hours, 100 degrees Fahrenheit of boiling heat, before city officials manage to scrape her prone form from the craggy pavement.
The chalked outline for hopscotch is still splattered with her blood.
The nursery rhyme ricochets in his head as Signal hands over the repeated offender to Batman’s oldest confidant, Commissioner Gordon.
**
sellout
**
strong
The earth cries out to Damian every time a dandelion pushes through the cracked pavement, begging for nourishment for itself and its brethren.
Gotham does not allow nature to exist.
The city is a strange mesh of forward thinking technology that provides a sleek overpass to corporate offices and outdated tenements that dwell alongside filthy streets that all reside under the depressing smog filled sky.
Walking through Gotham is like walking barefoot on broken glass.
Every time he attempts to use his powers, they cry out to him, in need of water, food, and shelter from the casual cruelty Gotham residents seem to enact towards all forms of nature.
He always answers their cries even when all he has to offer is an apology. Damian tries his best to carry a canteen filled with water and fertilizer in the pouches of his utility belt. More often than not, he assists the wildlife that cry out to him.
But sometimes…
His powers work a little too well.
The city bills Wayne Enterprises, the source of all of Batman’s and his team of merry men’s weaponry, when Damian’s careful care spawns leafy contraptions that become wild to protest Gotham’s flagrant mistreatment.
As far as Damian is concerned, Gotham can only stand to benefit from his concrete jungle turned tourist attractions. Maybe the addition of sunflowers will make the city less depressing.
Honestly, Gotham is an eco-activist’s nightmare.
He can empathize with Poison Ivy on that front but stating that aloud won’t grant him any favors in Father’s eyes.
So he keeps his powers in check as he’s tracking down one of Penguin’s goons, willing away the giggle of hydrangeas scuffling at his feet.
The buffoon trips over a pile of cardboard, giving Damian enough time to readjust the elastic pinning down his locks back before sending a tendril to hog-tie the criminal’s wrists.
The bastard screams as if he’s never seen foliage before which is hard to believe with a villain like Poison Ivy around, who uses Gotham’s arboretum as her stomping ground every other week.
Spittle is flying as the man loudly proclaims his innocence but Damian is too tired to listen, with a week’s worth of sleepless nights under his belt and bags that can carry a small suitcase.
This man might be their only lead to crack open this case. After all the random buildings Penguin has blown up in the Narrows, apartments with families just sitting down for dinner only to have their entrails thrown to the sky. This is vastly different from his typical MO. They need to know what the Penguin is up to, if only to prevent more tragedies from occurring. He has been instructed to keep watch and—
“Do not engage,” Oracle’s orders crackle under the static of the comms.
All seeing and all knowing seems to be the Oracle’s annoyingly consistent schtick.
Peonies bloom from the moss peeking out of the aged brick building. Damian summons a stream of magnolias to his person. Twisting the stems, he forms an intricate pattern of varying constellations such as Taurus, the ever-charging bull and the Little Dipper, the soup ladle filled to the brim with bright bursts of color. Maybe this flower crown is worthy enough to rest on Mother’s head.
His sword itches for blood but he curbs its cloying murmurs. He will not succumb to its sweet allure again.
It will not help him earn Father’s trust.
The utterly mindless activity numbs the raging storm in his head that incessantly nitpicks the contradictory life he chooses to engage in. He can’t think about the glimmer of distrust—disgust that runs amuck in the Bat’s ice chip baby blues. Antipathy is making a slow resurgence in that man’s costumed demeanor. Or Mother’s worryingly distressed amber irises when she sent him to live in Gotham.
Self-loathing radiates from his figure as vacant green eyes gazes at dull red brick until he feels something wet and slimy hit his cheek.
Damian carefully wipes the substance from his cheek and examines it. What is this? He spreads his fingers, gazing intently at the substance that drips in between the crevices of his forest green gloves.
Then it hits him.
Or more accurately, it feels like a punch to the face.
He turns to the man that has the red devil dancing in his eyes, spewing statements that fly over Damian’s head. Cursing the bird themed champion with every fiber in his being.
It was obvious.
That man just spat on him.
That man just spat on him.
That man just spat on him.
That man just spat on him .
Blood rushes through his ears and it is a struggle to resist his blade’s call for the bastard’s blood. Red will provide this alleyway with the new coat of paint it so desperately needs.
Several birdarangs fly, pinning the henchman to the crumbling brick building, while the vines pull the man’s limbs taut against the wall, rendering them out of commission.
The wind is sliced clean in half as a dagger rests on the criminal’s jugular.
“Speak.”
The henchman wheezes, chest heaving from the weight of the vitriol he spews. “Dirty, thieving, boy,” He spits on the ground again, tremors wracking his frame from suppressed anger. “Stealing jobs from good, hardworking men.”
Damian is baffled, the feeling quickly clouding over the surge of fury from the bastard’s bold actions.
“Unpatriotic, is what this is,” The man smiles, a mean-spirited grin stretching across his pudgy face. “The Bat has gone soft on us.” He snorts. “Outsourcing like those hippy dippy politicians up in Congress do.”
“Three homegrown American boys all wore that primary colored nightmare and then here comes you.” The man eyes him derisively as Damian's mouth hangs open in shock. “A little terrorist trying to act as if he belongs here.”
The birdarang clatters loudly from its sudden descent.
Damian knew that he had to deal with the rampant discrimination from the Bat brood that was rooted in his rather violent arrival into the family.
But the public —
On top of high society’s never-ending scrutiny—
Damian’s mask cracks for a moment, Hafid shining through in a rare show of vulnerability.
That’s all it takes.
“Oh,” the bastard jeers, the sound rattling Damian’s bones. “Did that upset you?”
Damian’s skin feels tight, as if the satiny wrapping that holds all his guts is being pulled taut.
He feels small.
As if he doesn’t fit in—
Connect —
Belon —
A little terrorist trying to act as if he belongs here.
Vines sprout from the battered concrete, wrapping around the offender’s limbs. The tendrils completely decimate the shabby brick building.
Obliterate any signs of weakness.
Mother's mantra calls to him as the leafy prison grows to encompass the grown man’s shouts until those unnervingly accurate remarks can no longer assault his ears.
↔
Smile.
Grin.
Bear it.
These three phrases clatter about in his mind, making the inevitable struggle to save as many lives as possible less daunting and more approachable . Maybe the black dots dancing in his vision will disappear for a moment if he emits good vibes into the universe.
Running on four hours of sleep and sheer force of will , Duke wants to run into the nearest brick wall. Maybe then he’ll get the sleep he so desperately needs.
But no …
The Riddler planted bombs all over the Narrows, providing Batman with an overly complicated conundrum and thirty minutes to spare.
So now it’s an all hands on deck situation.
Duke isn’t ready for this.
He had just finished presenting his English paper, describing the intersectionality between race and class, characterizing the distinct disadvantages that result from those operating systems, and evaluating the modern day solutions in place to combat these issues.
Duke Thomas savored the uncomfortable glances his classmates tossed at each other and the strained, “Thank you for your contribution, Mr. Thomas,” from his resigned English teacher.
Shields tight and armor in place was the only way he was going to survive this school. None of them would hesitate to pick on "one of Bruce Wayne’s endless slew of gutter trash.”
So he was looking forward to unwinding in his room at the Manor, with its grandiose staircases and glittering chandeliers. Sometimes his skin feels too tight, as if he’s stretching the limited capacity of his invulnerability. It’s as if his skin has morphed into stone.
Impervious and unyielding in its quest to protect its welder.
This is why he needs his room.
It’s the only place where he feels safe.
Where stone melts into skin—
And he could exist.
Until this clusterfuck decided to happen.
The Riddler is banking on the fact that all Gothamites have a natural aversion towards the police, especially ones who live, walk, and breathe the Narrows. Gotham's finest are not known for their stellar track record. Rather the corruption runs deep in its roots, sweeping behind fraudulent misuses of power and unaccounted victims of the casual cruelty its officers exhibit behind a gleaming exterior.
How are they supposed to trust a man, who willingly dresses as a Bat, along with his team of costumed capers to protect them when he publicly aligns himself with law enforcement, despite its known reputation?
The Riddler took a huge risk.
It paid off.
Aaliyah's prone form flashes behind his eyes as the residents of the Narrows, the neighborhood known to be plagued by violence and crime, refuse his hurried offer to help. From the defensive working girls, to the listless drug addicts, to graying homeless men, to the annoyed thieving pickpockets that roam the streets. Each and every one of them turn their nose up at his rushed attempt at a rescue.
You can't be from the Narrows if you’re afraid of a little pain.
As he sluggishly pulls some of the residents to the cracked pavement right outside their apartments, a bright burst of color catches his peripherals. The first of the Riddler's bombs has detonated, violently ripping apart one of the only rent-controlled apartments on this block. Wailing can be heard through the streets along with shouts of frustration as the residents watch their meager belongings enveloped by flame.
Red Robin gazes at the citizens, pity alighting his white colored lenses. Signal can tell that he only sees them as victims of a mad man's diabolical machinations. He shares a look with Spoiler and Red Hood, the other two born and bred natives of the Narrows, who shake their heads at Red Robin's naivety.
The city has already given up on these residents.
But they will survive.
As they always do.
And no amount of pitying looks or sympathetic gazes will help them get back on their feet.
It is not appreciated nor is it wanted.
If you want to help—
Actions speak louder than words.
Signal is about to drag the lanky homeless man from the alley to a safer zone when a sudden movement catches his eye. As he is turning around, he sees a piece of rubble flying towards a little girl, donned in a poofy pink dress with strappy white sandals. As the light of the explosion accentuated the debris, he is able to see the afterimages of the light that hit the objects within that space, making the object seem slow to him.
At its projected trajectory, the rubble will crush the little girl no matter how fast she runs.
His legs begin moving before his mind starts to play catch up and all he can think of is—
Let this not be another Aaliyah.
By the time his mind catches up, his arms are around the waist of the little girl and the debris is crumbling on the concrete flooring that form Gotham's streets. His arms begin to tremble minisculely, the only visible indication of his rattled nerves.
He's been thinking a lot about Aaliyah lately.
“Wow,” the little girl cries out, shaking him out of his stinging memories, her eyes blown wide. Signal is about to kneel over from exhaustion when she touches the silver of skin not covered in Kevlar. Not reinforced by protection—dreams— strength.
“Just like me.”
She smiles, a full watt grin complete with a gap toothed blessing, complementing her satiny dark brown skin.
Duke wants to cry.
He can't hold it in any longer.
Stone melts into skin.
**
fallout
**
homesick
There’s a tiny hole in the wall that is having its grand opening on Lexington Avenue.
Authentic Chinese Cuisine, the dull white banner above the store boasts in bright primary red.
A circle around the block once—twice—thrice allows Damian to pluck up his courage littered across the splintered sidewalk.
An apple blossom for good fortune.
The bells of Ireland for good luck.
A dahlia for dignity and elegance twined as one.
And a daffodil for respect.
Twisting and turning and twining of stems into a makeshift daisy chain quells the din that’s been wreaking havoc on his nerves. Before he knows it, his feet carry him into the humble eatery.
“One vegan mapo tofu, please,” Damian picks at the scab under his right thumb, the result of a Thursday night patrol going south. His words echo off the walls as he holds his breath, waiting for the man to kindly reject his request.
Mapo tofu isn’t a dish typically served in Gotham.
Every time he orders mapo tofu at the high end restaurants Father drags the whole family too from time to time, they either stare down at him, confusion coloring their gaze or state that the dish can only be served with beef.
After the first ten rejections, he learned to stop asking for it. Let it be said that he is nothing, if not persistent.
Damian chose another dish, quinoa, one that works with the westernized cuisine typically served at these establishments after that.
But a small part of him, where Hafid is clamoring to be set free, fiercely guards his cherished memories with his mother and the exploration of their shared Sichuan heritage.
“Never inform your grandfather of this, beta.” Mama whispers, hushed tone laced with caution, as she hands him a dish filled with beige cubes floating in a bright red suspension, the sharp aroma wafting from the dish causing his eye to water.
Her shoulders shake with laughter when she spots the tears steadily leaking from the corner of his eyes.
“This is my mother’s special dish,” Her amber gaze turns gooey, alight with humor.
“That makes it your grandmother’s special dish.”
Mama’s amber irises become shadowed for a moment before returning to a rather subdued light. “Your grandfather doesn’t like discussing your grandmother.” She heaves a sigh, as though the weight of the world is on her at that moment.
“He still blames himself for her untimely demise.”
Hafi—Damian doesn’t like to see Mama sad.
He tugs her skirt, tiny fingers producing indents in the fabric. “Can you tell me about her?”
Mama smiles, a genuine one—not the one she gives to the guards instructed by Grandfather to follow him. Those ones are scary, her gaze promising death while her lips echo an affable nature.
This one lights up her eyes, amber melting into caramel, with an uptick of her crimson coated lips.
“She was kind,” Mama runs her hand through his hair, smoothing over the stray strands that are not caught in the elastic. “The kindest person you will ever meet. I believed she passed that unto you—“
The conversation flows from there, with his mother weaving a tale of hope and sorrow while they swap the dish back and forth between them, each tasting the beige cube soaked in doubanjiang that constituted the desires—wishes—aspirations of the gentle but fierce Melisande.
He zones out, lost in reminiscence, until he hears the cashier, a charming woman with crows feet accentuating the smile lines dimpling her cheeks, calling out to him.
“That will be $11.95. Cash or card, sir?”
Hastily he brings out his card, the sleek Wayne Enterprises logo etched on the shiny piece of plastic.
“Card, please.”
As he inserts the card into the chip reader, the woman hands him a thank you bag containing a large plastic container, the bright yellow smiley face mocking his worries over the restaurant not carrying the dish he so desperately craved.
Damian removes the card when instructed to do so and smiles, a tiny jagged thing filled with his surprisingly fulfilled expectations. Placing the dainty wreath on the off-white counter, he says,
“谢谢你.”
It was one of the few words he was able to pick up from Mother’s lessons because he had to learn in secret, away from Grandfather’s nosy ears. The lessons were beginning to pick up until the mission that changed everything, leaving Mother perpetually angry and Grandfather unceasingly scornful of all his actions.
He only speaks broken Putonghua now, his Sichuan dialect sounding like a violin string snapping.
“不 客 气.”
She responds, a soft smile upturning her lips, accepting the wreath of blossoms.
After witnessing the teller place the flower crown among her thinning locks, his feet carry him out the door with a spring in his step.
Finally,
He found it.
His little slice of home.
↕
Oxtail.
Mr. Terry, from apartment 2B otherwise known as the man who loves to terrorize children up and down the block, shoves a Tupperware box filled with oxtail into Duke’s arms.
“The neighborhood hasn’t been the same without you,” he grumbles, managing to avoid Duke’s gaze no matter how many times Duke tries. “This is my wife’s way of worrying-slash-wishing you well.”
Duke is shocked, petrified by those words into statue stillness, until Mr. Terry pats him roughly on the back.
“Stay safe, kid.”
With those parting words, Mr. Terry clomps down the block, intent on tasting his wife’s heavenly cooking for dinner.
Duke stares at the container, a swirl of emotions following the overwhelming feeling of emptiness that threatens to consume him.
“Hey baby,” Mom’s head pokes through his door. “Try this.” A spoon is shoved into his mouth before he can protest, the stew spilling down his tongue.
He turns around, leaving Tracy Towers and wanders down the block, no destination coming to mind.
Duke stays quiet, savoring the spices that deepen the flavor of the stew. Just as Mom’s eyes begin to narrow at his sudden vow of silence, he responds, “It’s fine.”
Mom raises a racket at this statement. “Just fine,” she laments, her voice gearing for a rant. “I’ve been slaving away in that kitchen for hours, trying to recreate my Trini mother’s prized oxtail, and all you can say is—“ Cue exaggerated finger quotes. “Just fine.”
Somehow his feet carry him to the entrance of Wayne Manor which is worrying in its own right because the Narrows is all the way across town. The Tupperware weighs heavily in his arms.
Sensing that this can go on for a while, Duke cuts his mother off. “When I said fine, I meant great.” He gestures toward his mouth. “Amazing. I could feel my taste buds tingling.”
He fishes his keys out of his jeans pocket while balancing oxtail in his right arm, a precarious position maintained by sheer determination.
“Well, why didn’t you just say that baby?” She laughs, squishing her cheeks together before she leaves his room, a whirlwind of energy leaving Duke’s room in a state of upheaval.
Big fat teardrops roll down his cheeks, forming twin rivulets. The hand that is poised to open the door began to shake.
He misses Mom so much.
↔
Damian is shoveling scarlet dyed tofu in his mouth when the latest of Father’s adoptees stumbles into the dining room.
Five seconds of highly uncomfortable eye contact is enough for Thomas to break it and wipe suspiciously shiny wet tracks from his cheeks.
Thomas sets his bowl of Tupperware on the table and proceeds with what Damian can only presume to be a spoon. He feels like a dragon when he wraps an arm around his container, hoarding the dish and all the memories associated with it. Damian isn’t in the mood to entertain questions from an interested culture enthusiast.
A bowl of piping hot white rice, a soup ladle, and a spoon.
These are the items Thomas brought back with him. The dark skinned boy tears a paper towel from its roll, and lays these items on top of the white absorbent paper gently. It feels as if the serving of this meal is a sacred ritual which only Thomas knows of the full details.
A delicate gossamer strand exists between Thomas and his items and Damian keeps silent, not wanting to become the raging bull in a china shop that disrupts this strangely fragile atmosphere.
He watches as Thomas pours the stew, contained by the Tupperware, on the steaming white rice, as if he is casting a spell. The stew seeps into the rice, changing the soft white color into a rich brown hue. The spices in that dish pack a punch. An audible gasp of wonder leaves his lips, causing Thomas to glance in his direction. He quickly looks down, directing his intense focus to the dish in front of him.
Damian hears the metal spoon clanging against the china, indicating that Thomas has begun to enjoy his meal. He can’t help sneaking another glance at the dish that transforms a blank canvas into an array of colors ranging from chestnut to russet.
But what leaves him dumbstruck is Thomas’ expression.
It’s as if he has tasted home.
“That looks good.”
It takes a few moments for Damian to realize that those words slips out of his mouth.
Shit.
↕
Duke looks up from his dish, astonishment written all over his features. He thought the little gremlin would never speak to him because of blood purity and all that. Pasting on his best grin, he answers the boy's implied question.
“Yeah, it’s amazing. My taste buds are tingling.”
As he is going for another scoop of oxtail and rice, his spoon hovers over his plate. Wait a minute. Isn't that the exact same thing he told his mother back then? Just a slightly different reiteration. Tremors wrack his frame as the pain of remembering consumes him.
Pearly tears fell down his cheeks, each giving way to a memory—remembrance— reminiscence about Mom.
“Fuck, man,” He hurriedly wipes his tears, not wanting to seem weak in front of the other. “Didn’t mean to break down on you like that.”
He sniffs, holding in the snot that threatens to run down his nostrils. "It's just that those words were the exact same words I said to my mom." The spoon makes a hasty descent into the expertly prepared dish, buoyed by oxtail soaked white rice. Duke holds his head in his hands, wanting to block out the world for just a moment— second where he could stop being—
Duke Thomas, the charity case lucky enough to attend Gotham Academy.
The Signal, the boy who dons light and shadow to deter the inexplicably high crime rate that plagues Gotham.
That poor boy, who lost his parents to suspended animation thanks to one of the Joker's convoluted schemes.
He just wants to be Duke.
His parents', the boy slowly becoming a man, pride and joy.
The boy from the Narrows.
No expectations.
A voice breaks through his musings which are precariously tipping onto the verge of self-pity. “I get it,” the prissy tone the boy usually adopts sounded alarmingly contrite. He gestures toward his plate. “This is my mother’s favorite dish.”
Cinnamon brown shoulders begin to shake in an attempt to hold back some unsaid emotion. "It's one of the only things that grounds me." Damian's brilliant green eyes began to water, pooling in the corners. "That reminds me that my childhood wasn't all the horror story this family seems to believe it to be." His voice begins to quiver as he sets down his set of chopsticks. "There were some bright spots that overshadowed the training that they're not so fond of learning about, but have no problems relying on in times of crises."
Then, to Duke's complete shock, Damian burst out into tears. Or, to be more accurate, big ugly sobs. It seems like this breakdown is inevitable with the way Damian’s chest heaves from the force of his cries, the shiny trails of snot that leaves his nostrils, and his puffy red eyes trying to release as much tears as possible.
After remaining frozen for about five minutes, Duke snaps into motion, getting up from his chair. He walks around the table, the only obstacle in his path, and wraps his arms around Damian. It seems as if they are going through something similar.
He hugs him as tight as he can, determined to be there until the little boy's body stops quaking.
"It's going to be OK." Duke breathes out, hoping that his words will wash over the boy and take the encouragement as comfort.
It's what Mom will have done.
↔
Tears are a luxury Damian was not afforded these past couple of months.
So it's only natural when he's granted the opportunity, he grabs onto it and refuses to budge.
In that one moment, he feels raw but unburden, miserable but soothed, chaotic but calm. It feels as though he is exorcizing all the melancholy that is weighing his every step in this Manor—society— city.
He just wants to exist.
Why won't they let him?
"You're allowed to exist."
With a startle, Damian doesn't realize that he has spoken those words aloud. Or that this is the absolution he needs to become himself. To be both Damian and Hafid, the son of Gotham's Bat and the talented assassin, the little boy who still has room to grow.
The tears slowly come to a stop with this realization. Damian places a tentative grasp on the arm holding him, grounding him. "You're allowed to exist too." His head tilts up so that he is facing his savior. "No expectations."
A watery chuckle escapes Hafid—and—Damian. "Just be."
**
shout out
**
meta-human
met · a · hu · man
/ ˈme-tə · hyü-mən /
- Persons and/or abilities beyond normal human limits
- Referring to anyone with extranormal powers, not exclusive to humans
- Often seen as more or less
thanhuman