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thejusticelounge2012-11-11 08:25 am
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2012-11-11 08:25 am
Entry tags:
in the stillness
He comes into the room while Damian is asleep and draws the curtains closed. Looks at the bandage on the head wound. Murmurs: “اشتقت لك, ابني” and resists the urge to pull the blanket to cover Damian’s shoulders. He lingers for a bit, looking at the neatly organised room, before leaving, taking care to shut the door quietly behind him.
The night is fitful for Damian, full of feverish dreams brought on by fretting over Grayson and the pain of his injury. Pennyworth tended to the welt on his cheek with his usual amount of care, but the ache wakes Damian each time he turns his face upon the pillow in his sleep. Grayson may be diminutive compared to many of the men on the League, but he can hit hard when he wants to. Damian sorely regrets being caught off-guard and reminded of it firsthand. Whatever Grayson saw in his addled mind when he looked upon Damian, he’d been determined to take it down.
His escrima stick wouldn’t have connected had it been anyone else, but Damian too often lets his fondness for Grayson cloud his better judgment. When they found Grayson, Damian had rushed to him like a faithful puppy without considering the potential danger. Shameful. The maelstrom in his mind rages harder still with the realization that Father must be disappointed in his failure during the rescue.
Words spoken in a familiar language invade one of his shallow dreams, muffled as if he’s hearing them underwater. I miss you, my son. “I miss you, Mama,” Damian murmurs in return. He reaches for her in the spicy-sweet fog of burning cardamom sticks and jasmine soap, and she lets him tangle his little fingers in the loose strands that spill from her braid of thick hair, promises him she’ll let him untwist the plait and brush it smooth when they return to their tent tonight. He likes that, the floral scent of Mama’s hair after a day of having blood stain his senses. She’ll kiss him and tell him he has Mama’s lips and Father’s eyes.
Damian wakens suddenly when he hears footsteps receding, and it’s Father’s broad back that moves away from his bed, not Mother’s lithe form. And she’s Mother, not Mama, because he isn’t five anymore and there’s no affection left between them. His choice. He sits up beneath his blankets in the cold bedroom in Wayne Manor, takes a whiff of Pennyworth’s favored lemon cleaning solution, and reminds himself he doesn’t regret it. “Father,” he speaks into the darkness as the man almost escapes behind the bedroom door. “Is Grayson recovered?”
Damn. Not quiet enough. He looks in through the door, being careful not to let too much light in the corridor. Keeping his expression blank and his tone level, he says, “No news. Tim should be up there now. I’m going to the cave to finish looking at Gardner’s bloodwork. Breakfast in the kitchen at oh-six-hundred.”
Silence. Stillness. Damian staring at him - an intensity so different from Dick or Jason or Tim, who’d always looked at him a bit more blearily if he woke them up like this. Or make a crack about how criminals were still superstitious and cowardly even in the daytime. Say something else to the boy. Don’t just shut the door and leave him.
His own bloodwork isn’t done. He doesn’t know if he’s infected himself.
“Go back to sleep.”
He shuts the door and leaves, without saying anything else.
“But—”
The door closes, darkness settling over the bedroom once more. Damian attempts to follow Father’s orders for several minutes, tossing about under his blankets and wincing each time he jostles his face the wrong way. His thoughts of Grayson and memories of Mother trouble him. Whatever part of his brain that was determined to romanticize his images of her must have forgotten her cruelty when his efforts were determined below standard, her propensity to turn against him without provocation. Damian can remember it now, and the beckoning scent of jasmine plays no role in those particular recollections.
He rises from bed and makes way down the long halls of the Manor, padding in bare feet and pajamas until he enters the cave far below. The metal grating is cold under his toes, and he instinctively wraps his arms around himself. Father looks up and Damian is quick to preempt his inevitable disapproval. “I couldn’t sleep. Can I assist you with analyzing the bloodwork, Father?”
He knows that look. Might as well.
He gestures to the vials he prepared for the blood culture, and then towards the machine. “Put them in. When you’re done, check the white blood cell differential of the finished test over there.” He turns his chair back to the computer, hiding the small Minesweeper window and bringing up old files he’d stored on Ra’s.. on second thought Damian would approach if he noticed his grandfather’s name on the screen. He switched it to the unfinished analysis on Dick’s blood sample. It wasn’t enough, he’d have to return to the Watchtower and examine more detailed doctor’s reports to see what specific brain areas had been affected. And if possible, work on keeping a ready cure in the Batcave.
There was also the matter of Robin’s phone, but that could wait. And breakfast. Which could also wait.
Time to get to work.
Damian is quick and eager to obey, inserting the three vials of blood for analysis and reporting the results of the white blood cell test to Batman without further prompting. “What do you think is infecting him?” he asks, holding a vial before his face to study it in the light. “Scarecrow’s toxin? It’s been some time since we’ve had an encounter with him.”
His own bloodwork is fine. No infection, for now at least.
“Fear toxin doesn’t affect us like this,” he says, looking at Damian study the vial. “We’re also largely immune. If Crane is involved he has found friends in high places.” Like your mother. He paused. “Come here. This is Dick’s blood. Look at the structure of this so-called nanobot. It’s easy to mistake for a harmless bacterium.”
The night is fitful for Damian, full of feverish dreams brought on by fretting over Grayson and the pain of his injury. Pennyworth tended to the welt on his cheek with his usual amount of care, but the ache wakes Damian each time he turns his face upon the pillow in his sleep. Grayson may be diminutive compared to many of the men on the League, but he can hit hard when he wants to. Damian sorely regrets being caught off-guard and reminded of it firsthand. Whatever Grayson saw in his addled mind when he looked upon Damian, he’d been determined to take it down.
His escrima stick wouldn’t have connected had it been anyone else, but Damian too often lets his fondness for Grayson cloud his better judgment. When they found Grayson, Damian had rushed to him like a faithful puppy without considering the potential danger. Shameful. The maelstrom in his mind rages harder still with the realization that Father must be disappointed in his failure during the rescue.
Words spoken in a familiar language invade one of his shallow dreams, muffled as if he’s hearing them underwater. I miss you, my son. “I miss you, Mama,” Damian murmurs in return. He reaches for her in the spicy-sweet fog of burning cardamom sticks and jasmine soap, and she lets him tangle his little fingers in the loose strands that spill from her braid of thick hair, promises him she’ll let him untwist the plait and brush it smooth when they return to their tent tonight. He likes that, the floral scent of Mama’s hair after a day of having blood stain his senses. She’ll kiss him and tell him he has Mama’s lips and Father’s eyes.
Damian wakens suddenly when he hears footsteps receding, and it’s Father’s broad back that moves away from his bed, not Mother’s lithe form. And she’s Mother, not Mama, because he isn’t five anymore and there’s no affection left between them. His choice. He sits up beneath his blankets in the cold bedroom in Wayne Manor, takes a whiff of Pennyworth’s favored lemon cleaning solution, and reminds himself he doesn’t regret it. “Father,” he speaks into the darkness as the man almost escapes behind the bedroom door. “Is Grayson recovered?”
Damn. Not quiet enough. He looks in through the door, being careful not to let too much light in the corridor. Keeping his expression blank and his tone level, he says, “No news. Tim should be up there now. I’m going to the cave to finish looking at Gardner’s bloodwork. Breakfast in the kitchen at oh-six-hundred.”
Silence. Stillness. Damian staring at him - an intensity so different from Dick or Jason or Tim, who’d always looked at him a bit more blearily if he woke them up like this. Or make a crack about how criminals were still superstitious and cowardly even in the daytime. Say something else to the boy. Don’t just shut the door and leave him.
His own bloodwork isn’t done. He doesn’t know if he’s infected himself.
“Go back to sleep.”
He shuts the door and leaves, without saying anything else.
“But—”
The door closes, darkness settling over the bedroom once more. Damian attempts to follow Father’s orders for several minutes, tossing about under his blankets and wincing each time he jostles his face the wrong way. His thoughts of Grayson and memories of Mother trouble him. Whatever part of his brain that was determined to romanticize his images of her must have forgotten her cruelty when his efforts were determined below standard, her propensity to turn against him without provocation. Damian can remember it now, and the beckoning scent of jasmine plays no role in those particular recollections.
He rises from bed and makes way down the long halls of the Manor, padding in bare feet and pajamas until he enters the cave far below. The metal grating is cold under his toes, and he instinctively wraps his arms around himself. Father looks up and Damian is quick to preempt his inevitable disapproval. “I couldn’t sleep. Can I assist you with analyzing the bloodwork, Father?”
He knows that look. Might as well.
He gestures to the vials he prepared for the blood culture, and then towards the machine. “Put them in. When you’re done, check the white blood cell differential of the finished test over there.” He turns his chair back to the computer, hiding the small Minesweeper window and bringing up old files he’d stored on Ra’s.. on second thought Damian would approach if he noticed his grandfather’s name on the screen. He switched it to the unfinished analysis on Dick’s blood sample. It wasn’t enough, he’d have to return to the Watchtower and examine more detailed doctor’s reports to see what specific brain areas had been affected. And if possible, work on keeping a ready cure in the Batcave.
There was also the matter of Robin’s phone, but that could wait. And breakfast. Which could also wait.
Time to get to work.
Damian is quick and eager to obey, inserting the three vials of blood for analysis and reporting the results of the white blood cell test to Batman without further prompting. “What do you think is infecting him?” he asks, holding a vial before his face to study it in the light. “Scarecrow’s toxin? It’s been some time since we’ve had an encounter with him.”
His own bloodwork is fine. No infection, for now at least.
“Fear toxin doesn’t affect us like this,” he says, looking at Damian study the vial. “We’re also largely immune. If Crane is involved he has found friends in high places.” Like your mother. He paused. “Come here. This is Dick’s blood. Look at the structure of this so-called nanobot. It’s easy to mistake for a harmless bacterium.”