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thejusticelounge2013-07-04 12:26 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2013-07-04 12:26 pm
Entry tags:
re·per·cus·sion
Damian lingers in his bedroom, sequestered as he often has been since he and Father arrived him from their ill-fated mission at the Ashbury Hotel. It’s not that Damian’s hiding— he did nothing wrong, of course. But seclusion seems preferable to Father’s company right now, as he’s been in a more grim state than usual. He sits at his desk, looking at something on his laptop.
Bruce knocks at the boy’s door, leaning heavily on a cane. He hated the cane, truly hated it in the purest sense of the word, but knew that walking around otherwise unassisted would be foolish and detrimental to the healing he was doing, in regards to the wounds he’d sustained at the Ashbury. Thinking about the night makes Bruce’s jaw clench, and he looks down at the polished hardwood of the floor while Damian takes his time in answering. His expression darkens, hand clenching a bit tighter on the carved top-piece of the cane, knuckles turning bright under the pressure.
Damian swivels in the chair to stare at the shadow that seeps under the closed door. He thinks for a second about not answering until that shadow recedes into the long hallway from whence it came, but he knows at once it’s an impossible scenario to entertain. Damian knows as well as anyone that there is no diverting Father from his path, and as his path has currently led him to Damian’s room, the boy has no choice but to admit him and endeavor to maintain some dignity about the whole affair. He briskly crosses his quarters and pulls the door open, looking up but not quite meeting Father’s eyes when his massive shadow spills over Damian in its entirety.
"Yes?" he prompts, as nonchalant as he dares.
Bruce speaks, his voice hard, even if he doesn’t mean it to come across as rough as it does. He looks down at the boy, still so small, lifetimes away from being anything but, and exhales, jerkily, through his nose.
"I’m stripping you of the title of Robin, until further notice." He doesn’t begin with ‘we need to talk’ or expand into some winding spin on truth, justice or the American way: what Damian—and Bruce—need are the bare bones of the matter, something that allows them to cut through the daze of the last few days with a surgeon-like precision. He doesn’t even blink when the last word slips from between his teeth: there is no fear, no reproach, nothing but the decision, his command.
Damian nearly erupts with fury, blood rushing to his face until his skin is red and feverish.
"What?" he demands, the word tearing from between his teeth. “Because of— no! No, you can’t do that!"
He stomps his left foot and instantly regrets it when a pang of agony shoots up his thigh where a bullet was so recently embedded, but his anger dulls the sensation. “Grayson wouldn’t take Robin away from me. I saved your life!"
"I’m not Dick," he states, and it’s beginning to feel like something he should attach to his business card, with how often he makes the statement. His eyes narrow, staring down at Damian, the dark blue of his eyes fathomless and steely blue.
"You utilized a prohibited weapon, you killeda man, injured three others, armed or not." His eyes open the tiniest bit, as he continues, impassive expression drifting into indifference as the boy stomped his food. “You attacked me, unprovoked, usurped my command over what we would do next and in doing so, disobeyed every express command I’ve ever made about conduct on the field.
Damian attempts to hold himself tall, unmoved, but his shoulders tremble as the realization that he’d killed multiple assailants falls heavy upon him. He’d known it was a possibility— they’d have certainly been mangled beyond any hope of a decent recovery even if they’d survived. Damian doesn’t feel personal guilt over stripping them of their murderous lives, but he knows Father’s view of the matter allows for no moral ambiguity: thou shalt not kill, ever. If he makes a sincere effort to adhere to any of Father’s commandments, it’s that one, and he can suddenly feel Bruce’s grave disappointment descend upon him like a heavy shroud. "
It was them or us," he insists, though he’s not yelling now. “I knew you wouldn’t understand, so I incapacitated you in order to return you quickly to Pennyworth’s care."
Bruce leans down a bit, his shoulders hunching as Damian speaks, his body seeming to expand and swell as the seconds tick on. His upper lip slides over his teeth for a brief moment before he settles the anger that spikes a heavy and hot blow into his chest, just barely, into a recessed place where he can refocus it later.
"It’s not your place to decide what I will or won’t understand, boy." His grip tightens over the cane again, the cartilage in his hand crackling as he does so, chest expanding with leaden, thick breaths.
"You have continually demonstrated a complete and utter lack of control and have no regard for what I have to teach you." Bruce bites down, teeth creaking and inhales, stepping back from the door, his body twisting.
"Your access to the Watchtower will not be prohibited," he begins, pausing only to add: “You will continue with your studies and training, but you will not go on patrol with me. Is that understood?"
Damian looks to the cane that supports Father’s weight, attention drawn by the hand shifting atop it, and considers kicking the bottom free of its purchase on the dark hardwood, watching Bruce topple heavy and helpless at his feet. Warm satisfaction floods him at the thought of it, chased immediately by a sickening rush of shame. But would it not be warranted vengeance for this direct threat to his very identity? Robin is who he is now, more than Damian— Damian is still a boy raised by assassins, but Robin is his liberation from them, from Mother.
"I have regard for your instruction, your rules," he bites out, the last word dripping with disdain. “If I did not, I would take the head of every petty thief and pickpocket we encounter. I will not continue schooling! If you take Robin from me, you have no other means by which to threaten me— or to keep me here." He moves closer into Bruce’s space until his chest is nearly touching his father’s stomach, baring his teeth up at him, his foot close to the cane. “I’ll leave. I’ll return to her."
Bruce ’s expression slowly, as Damian speaks, turns stony. It’s as if someone had cast the thin layer of flesh that lay atop the man’s Grecian features off, ripped it, still quivering from over the deep set of his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks, the cleft of his chin, and laid bare the actual substance Bruce was made from: stone. Dark blue eyes remain, unwavering, on Damian’s own, even as the boy steps forward and throws the straw upon the camel’s back. I’ll leave. I’ll return to her.
It isn’t.. pain, what the boy distills from the breaths Bruce drags in, methodically, because pain is something that Bruce has trained himself in, made a discipline of.. Courted like a lover. Pain is nothing in the grand scheme, a temporary distraction. No, this.. This is a hollowness, a bird stripped of flight and sinking into the mire that lines the bottom of his heart, choking on film and the dust of ghosts and memories long dead, of people long gone, that over takes Bruce leaves him floundering, unable to comprehend what it was that Damian was telling him.
All the while, Bruce blinks. Once.
"So go," he grunts. “If that’s what you want. If I have nothing—" He stops, exhaling forcefully and walks away, steps carefully measured, the cane striking the floor quietly.
Damian expects to be swept into the storm of his father’s rage when he issues his ultimatum— he never once thinks it will successfully restore to him that which has been lost, but if nothing else, he wants to strike Bruce where it will hurt the most. Talia is always present between them even when she’s half a world away, and it’s so cruel, so easy to utilize her in his power struggle against his father. He’s braced for yelling, for hands too strong to escape to rip him from the floor and rattle his bones for his spiteful belligerence. Any of it would have been preferable to Father’s cold departure, the clunk of the cane on the floor pounding with finality. He almost chases after him, almost tells him he’s bluffing— almost tells him he’s not bluffing at all and will leave right this moment, he swears it, Father, he swears it! But he slams his bedroom door instead and pitches himself facedown across the four-poster bed, throwing a red-faced tantrum into his blanket and pillows.
Bruce knocks at the boy’s door, leaning heavily on a cane. He hated the cane, truly hated it in the purest sense of the word, but knew that walking around otherwise unassisted would be foolish and detrimental to the healing he was doing, in regards to the wounds he’d sustained at the Ashbury. Thinking about the night makes Bruce’s jaw clench, and he looks down at the polished hardwood of the floor while Damian takes his time in answering. His expression darkens, hand clenching a bit tighter on the carved top-piece of the cane, knuckles turning bright under the pressure.
Damian swivels in the chair to stare at the shadow that seeps under the closed door. He thinks for a second about not answering until that shadow recedes into the long hallway from whence it came, but he knows at once it’s an impossible scenario to entertain. Damian knows as well as anyone that there is no diverting Father from his path, and as his path has currently led him to Damian’s room, the boy has no choice but to admit him and endeavor to maintain some dignity about the whole affair. He briskly crosses his quarters and pulls the door open, looking up but not quite meeting Father’s eyes when his massive shadow spills over Damian in its entirety.
"Yes?" he prompts, as nonchalant as he dares.
Bruce speaks, his voice hard, even if he doesn’t mean it to come across as rough as it does. He looks down at the boy, still so small, lifetimes away from being anything but, and exhales, jerkily, through his nose.
"I’m stripping you of the title of Robin, until further notice." He doesn’t begin with ‘we need to talk’ or expand into some winding spin on truth, justice or the American way: what Damian—and Bruce—need are the bare bones of the matter, something that allows them to cut through the daze of the last few days with a surgeon-like precision. He doesn’t even blink when the last word slips from between his teeth: there is no fear, no reproach, nothing but the decision, his command.
Damian nearly erupts with fury, blood rushing to his face until his skin is red and feverish.
"What?" he demands, the word tearing from between his teeth. “Because of— no! No, you can’t do that!"
He stomps his left foot and instantly regrets it when a pang of agony shoots up his thigh where a bullet was so recently embedded, but his anger dulls the sensation. “Grayson wouldn’t take Robin away from me. I saved your life!"
"I’m not Dick," he states, and it’s beginning to feel like something he should attach to his business card, with how often he makes the statement. His eyes narrow, staring down at Damian, the dark blue of his eyes fathomless and steely blue.
"You utilized a prohibited weapon, you killeda man, injured three others, armed or not." His eyes open the tiniest bit, as he continues, impassive expression drifting into indifference as the boy stomped his food. “You attacked me, unprovoked, usurped my command over what we would do next and in doing so, disobeyed every express command I’ve ever made about conduct on the field.
Damian attempts to hold himself tall, unmoved, but his shoulders tremble as the realization that he’d killed multiple assailants falls heavy upon him. He’d known it was a possibility— they’d have certainly been mangled beyond any hope of a decent recovery even if they’d survived. Damian doesn’t feel personal guilt over stripping them of their murderous lives, but he knows Father’s view of the matter allows for no moral ambiguity: thou shalt not kill, ever. If he makes a sincere effort to adhere to any of Father’s commandments, it’s that one, and he can suddenly feel Bruce’s grave disappointment descend upon him like a heavy shroud. "
It was them or us," he insists, though he’s not yelling now. “I knew you wouldn’t understand, so I incapacitated you in order to return you quickly to Pennyworth’s care."
Bruce leans down a bit, his shoulders hunching as Damian speaks, his body seeming to expand and swell as the seconds tick on. His upper lip slides over his teeth for a brief moment before he settles the anger that spikes a heavy and hot blow into his chest, just barely, into a recessed place where he can refocus it later.
"It’s not your place to decide what I will or won’t understand, boy." His grip tightens over the cane again, the cartilage in his hand crackling as he does so, chest expanding with leaden, thick breaths.
"You have continually demonstrated a complete and utter lack of control and have no regard for what I have to teach you." Bruce bites down, teeth creaking and inhales, stepping back from the door, his body twisting.
"Your access to the Watchtower will not be prohibited," he begins, pausing only to add: “You will continue with your studies and training, but you will not go on patrol with me. Is that understood?"
Damian looks to the cane that supports Father’s weight, attention drawn by the hand shifting atop it, and considers kicking the bottom free of its purchase on the dark hardwood, watching Bruce topple heavy and helpless at his feet. Warm satisfaction floods him at the thought of it, chased immediately by a sickening rush of shame. But would it not be warranted vengeance for this direct threat to his very identity? Robin is who he is now, more than Damian— Damian is still a boy raised by assassins, but Robin is his liberation from them, from Mother.
"I have regard for your instruction, your rules," he bites out, the last word dripping with disdain. “If I did not, I would take the head of every petty thief and pickpocket we encounter. I will not continue schooling! If you take Robin from me, you have no other means by which to threaten me— or to keep me here." He moves closer into Bruce’s space until his chest is nearly touching his father’s stomach, baring his teeth up at him, his foot close to the cane. “I’ll leave. I’ll return to her."
Bruce ’s expression slowly, as Damian speaks, turns stony. It’s as if someone had cast the thin layer of flesh that lay atop the man’s Grecian features off, ripped it, still quivering from over the deep set of his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks, the cleft of his chin, and laid bare the actual substance Bruce was made from: stone. Dark blue eyes remain, unwavering, on Damian’s own, even as the boy steps forward and throws the straw upon the camel’s back. I’ll leave. I’ll return to her.
It isn’t.. pain, what the boy distills from the breaths Bruce drags in, methodically, because pain is something that Bruce has trained himself in, made a discipline of.. Courted like a lover. Pain is nothing in the grand scheme, a temporary distraction. No, this.. This is a hollowness, a bird stripped of flight and sinking into the mire that lines the bottom of his heart, choking on film and the dust of ghosts and memories long dead, of people long gone, that over takes Bruce leaves him floundering, unable to comprehend what it was that Damian was telling him.
All the while, Bruce blinks. Once.
"So go," he grunts. “If that’s what you want. If I have nothing—" He stops, exhaling forcefully and walks away, steps carefully measured, the cane striking the floor quietly.
Damian expects to be swept into the storm of his father’s rage when he issues his ultimatum— he never once thinks it will successfully restore to him that which has been lost, but if nothing else, he wants to strike Bruce where it will hurt the most. Talia is always present between them even when she’s half a world away, and it’s so cruel, so easy to utilize her in his power struggle against his father. He’s braced for yelling, for hands too strong to escape to rip him from the floor and rattle his bones for his spiteful belligerence. Any of it would have been preferable to Father’s cold departure, the clunk of the cane on the floor pounding with finality. He almost chases after him, almost tells him he’s bluffing— almost tells him he’s not bluffing at all and will leave right this moment, he swears it, Father, he swears it! But he slams his bedroom door instead and pitches himself facedown across the four-poster bed, throwing a red-faced tantrum into his blanket and pillows.