Things Between
by TwinEnigma
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or related characters, et cetera. I do this for fun and not profit.
Warnings: Assumes Leviathan Strikes Arc did not happen, Damian doesn't die.
Damian doesn't look up when his father slides into the stadium seat next to him. Around them, the din from the martial arts tournament rises and falls with the action in the rings. Most of the youth competitions are over and the tournament is in its last stages, title fights being conducted in the three rings. All of Damian's attention is focused on the center ring and the dark-haired teenager engaged in combat there.
There is a silence. They both watch the fight unfolding in the center ring.
"He fights well," Bruce says, at last.
"He's a black belt," Damian responds, rolling his eyes.
Again, they lapse into silence, observing both the exchange of blows in the ring and, as usual, each other.
"He's the boy from your case, isn't he?" Bruce asks.
Damian scowls, but doesn't respond to his father.
Truthfully, it isn't any of his father's business. Its Damian's case – has been for years – and, on top of that, it's nothing more than a simple follow-up on a twelve-year-old case about an abandoned child. He'd wanted it from the start and his father had let him have it and all the disappointment that came with that when Damian failed to find the child's older brother. Eventually, he shelved the case: there was no sense in wasting time chasing ghosts that don't exist.
And then the boy returns and, with him, the case.
Bruce lets out a long-suffering, heavy sigh: "Damian, why are you here? This isn't like you."
"Do I really need to explain myself, father?" he asks.
His father gives him a piercing look. "Perhaps you do. Surely by now you've noticed the way that boy moves - that style he's using, as rough as it is, has the League of Assassins written all over it."
Damian averts his eyes, choosing to focus solely on the boy in the center ring. Tall and fit with a strong jaw, black hair and a slight frame that only hinted at his true potential, this boy could become anything, be anyone. And perhaps he still might, if Damian has any say.
"How long have you known?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he looks down at his hands and the old, faded remnants of scars.
"You've known all along, haven't you?"
"Yes," Damian says, at last. He rubs his thumb over the scars and it's surprising to him how easy it is to keep his words cold and detached. "It was the scars. Members of the League born to the life have these scars. His brother is most likely dead or long gone."
His father stills and for a moment is blessedly silent. Then, he pipes up: "Damian, why did you take this case?"
Damian gives his father a long, evaluating look and absently wonders if his father hasn't already guessed, if he doesn't already know who the boy down there in that ring really is. Then, Damian turns away, sinking deeper into his seat with a heavy sigh: "It's personal."
It's the truth. Perhaps it's the only truth that matters.
"They'll be looking for him, you know," Bruce says, standing. He turns to leave, leaning on his cane. "I don't have to tell you to be careful."
"You're right," Damian replies. He doesn't need to be reminded. He's always known the stakes in this case.
A cheer erupts and the boy in the center ring, his brilliant blue eyes shining, lets the referee raise his arm in triumph.
Idly, Damian wonders how it is possible to be both envious and proud at the same time. And yet, it makes sense when he considers the depth of his role in shaping this moment. This is as much his victory as that boy's.
And so he tips his hat in salute and lets himself enjoy this moment.
AN:
This was originally supposed to be part of a larger thing - which I may yet do, but for now this will do.
Damian and his personal cases.