Bruce's POV: Dinner

The tension around the room was two steps from manifesting as something oozing down my black skintight sweater. It had already killed the mood. Why not finish the job? Kids! I was one once. We all were. Actually, none of us were. We just think we remember.

The kids in question were sitting across from each other at my dining room table, creating, sending, and receiving the most dark, negative, murderous, microwave-quality vibes I'd ever been around. They would have been physically tearing each other to pieces if Dick and I weren't precisely positioned to stop such an attack. So, instead, they were trying to liquefy each other's faces, or melt each other's eyeballs, or turn each other's brains into cauliflower with a cheese sauce. I lifted a spoonful of soup to my lips. Turned out it was a chunky cream of cauliflower. I pushed the bowl away. And was distinctly not looking forward to the boeuf tartare.

Murderous vibes weren't anything new to me. Not quite as old as jungle drums in the golden age of cannibalism, but close. If recorded history can be trusted, they'd long ago passed into the bloodstream of my twisted family, then paddled downriver and colonized our DNA. We all knew what they felt like. And we all knew how to pass them on. Like an infection. I'd had my episodes. Felt the intensities. Acted on them. Watched people get caught up in them. Watched people hurt because of them. And more than hurt. With me the carrier, and everyone I made close to me the victims. Although maybe they wouldn't see it so. They certainly wouldn't say it so, but there are always doubts, and always guilt. Always. Dick, Jason, Tim, and now Damian, my blood no less, where what I am resonates and grows and mutates. And who is sitting across the table from a girl, trying to fry her with Wayne-waves. And meeting his match. In the person of the youngest member of our little band. Sophia. Dick's newest protégée.

Or maybe he was hers. After all, it was her choice. And since both Jason and Damian rubbed her the wrong way, or so went her story, Dick was the only option. I wonder sometimes if she didn't read the relative advantages before she consciously knew what they were. But, in any event, things seemed to work out, surprisingly well, and with some surprising side effects. Dick, of course, had his own separate house, so Sophia only had to endure Damian in the course of their weekly missions and during the obligatory Wayne family dinner every three weeks. I shake my head. The girl was barely twelve. Twelve. And a star in the making.

She'd joined the team a few months previously, and had quickly proved herself a small, competent, and highly, highly promising combatant in all the areas of her training. Dick was, from the start, impressed with her precocity. He'd give me periodic updates, meticulous updates, that mostly succeeded in concealing his awe. Damian, Jason, and Tim were less generous. But their exposure was limited, since they were frequently out on their own, training in unpredictable environments to heighten their ability to improv, and she was, or at least seemed, more than content to live according to her own rules, or methods, or principles. Whatever made her tick. I wasn't about to argue with what was working. I mean, she just had it. All of it. Wonderfully proficient on the streets, and in fact saving Damian's ass on more than one occasion. And just as capable in the kitchen, cooking five-star meals on her own, and leaving the leftovers for Dick to heat up when he came home. Did I overrate her skills? Perhaps. But the evidence was fairly clear. What with Damian walking around like a boy trying to find his missing pride. And Dick looking a wee bit chubby. I certainly didn't overrate her diligence, because when her nose wasn't stuck in a mixing bowl it was in a book, studying to get her GED. But on the other hand, when she wasn't cooking or reading, she was apparently spending her free time coming up with new ways to annoy Damian, or, perhaps the same thing, pull some emotion out of my emotionally guarded son.

It was puzzling to say the least. Damian had, from the time he grew out of diapers, made his general disdain perfectly clear; a disdain I knew well, rooted in his tendency to see everyone as a potential threat that needed to be eliminated. But Sophia, the composed girl with a disdain of her own, had seemingly made it her private and personal mission to bring out the worst in my son. Again, puzzling. Odd, and for me exasperating. Because yes, I could read him, but only according to my ability to intuit, evaluate, judge. So I was certainly right, but only up to the point where I wasn't. Where, for example, when I'd walked in on him a few times, undetected, and heard him muttering about different ways to torture the girl, I found myself looking at my own son as though he were a stranger, beyond my capacity to understand. Not the most comforting thing for a father to feel. His son, in his reach and out of it. And at thirteen.

This, or something like it, relating to Damian's strangeness, was accepted knowledge within my bat clan. So each of us had learned to keep his own uniquely calculated distance from the boy. With the effect being that I'm sure he thought that we thought that he was deranged, and deranged differently, depending on the distance he felt each of us was keeping. But not Sophia. No, not her. She was all about seeing gaps and closing them. Which can on the surface seem like an attempt to get close, if you ignore the competitiveness behind it. The competitive desire to catch up and surpass. And my, my, my, was she catching up. She was certainly not as thoroughly trained as my son. But she had her own native skills, including an unnerving ability to keep a calm and collected head during their matches. Poor Damian. His style was entirely dependent on being totally present in the moment, with the power to gather himself and exert maximum force quicker than anyone else. He was proud of that, and with good reason. He'd been crushing vastly more experienced opponents for years. Successes that only confirmed his absolute confidence in his physical genius, and in the power of his mind to meld will and flesh in the lightning of the moment.

At first, naturally, Sophia was completely overmastered. He'd toss and twist her into balloon animal shapes, then laugh and laugh when he forced her to submit. Flashy little bastard. Sorry, but he was. Still, there was something highly unusual in the way Sophia submitted. It caught my attention. I wasn't sure what was behind it, but there was always this look on her face, suggesting that she'd won, but was graciously acknowledging a decent effort on her adversary's part. It was like some recipe she was trying to perfect, with every botched attempt making her want to gag, but also inspiring her to smile instead of choke as if to say, 'hmm, that's closer.' Damian didn't notice, just kept on flashing and laughing and pretending he wasn't breathing harder than the last time. Until the next time became her first time and he just sat on the mat, looking stunned, and maybe trying not to cry.

I saw it, that bout. Saw him all suave, mocking arrogance finding his moment and ready to engage. Except that time she didn't. Didn't engage. And by that I don't mean that she backed away or avoided him. No. She was there. They met, grappling, but she didn't buy in. Just seemed to absorb the flash and the moment, let it pass right through her, and when he lost his balance, just a hair, did a leg sweep and caught him with a punch to the ribs on his way down, then reached out a hand to help his little, gasping self back up. That's when I saw it. What she had. The star quality. The patience in the quickness, and the power to absorb momentary pain because she was playing the long game, and had a different sense of what ends mean.

I knew that my family was odd. Unnervingly so. I mean what father in his right mind would dress up like a giant bat and stalk the night, looking for creeps and thugs to neutralize and punish? And what father with any kind of moral centre whatsoever would pull children into his obsessions? Rhetorical questions. No man anywhere, with a drop of dutiful, paternal blood in his veins, would teach innocent children how to kill, and then send them out to confront the world's most savage criminals. As I said, we weren't like other families. But at least we could pretend. Which is why, despite the insane vigilantism of our night life, I prided myself on maintaining a normal family facade, with mandatory dinners being one of those things I needed to stage. Right. I prided myself on needing to seem normal. No apologies or excuses. I know how that sounds. But it was what it was. I also know it was asking a lot from everybody. A hell of a lot, since most of my batty family were burdened by some complex and profound inner turmoil centred around me or someone else I was forcing them to sit beside every third Friday. We all had our issues, layered over traumas, layered over loyalties. And yet, despite all that, and this is a thing that I still look back on fondly, my family went out of their way to make the effort. Just for me. And that's perhaps the oddest thing. That I needed this. And they let me. Even Sophia. The latecomer. The girl I let my son abuse. For the sake of her star power. And the only person there who might have truly understood my ways and whys.

That night I had a full house. Barbara, Damian, Sophia, Dick, and even Commissioner Gordon showed up. The retired cop generously putting on a good face, given that I was the reason behind his daughter's current and fateful problems, and everyone knew it. She was, as always, charming and lively company, although every now and then the wheels of her wheelchair would audibly hit the table while she cut her steak, perhaps not intending to, but nonetheless reminding. I had a seventh plate set out for Jason, but that rambunctious, infuriating son of mine had of course declined the invitation, but was sure to stride in half an hour late with a 'nothing better to do' look on his features, then slump in his chair and complain about the food. It was also a fairly sure thing that Barbara would greet him with a smile of kindness and a small smack to her father's leg when his glare became too prominent. Gordon's disdain for my law-breaking son wasn't news, but since Jason's recent slaughter of the city's head drug kingpin and most of his lieutenants had effectively quieted the streets and lowered the crime rate associated with adolescent drug problems, the old man was a bit less eager than normal to reach for the gun he kept concealed in his pocket. Jason, knowing this, would doubtless smile his patented cocky smile, and maybe, or maybe not, proceed to eat his food with something vaguely like good manners.

Over time, I had managed to banish most of the negative vibes from the room in one way or another, solving crisis after crisis, easing bitterness, soothing damaged egos, mending fences, rebuilding burned bridges. Maybe I'd banished them all. And all so that they'd come back again like rude guests. Because this, after all, was their home. And I, after all, was Bruce Wayne. And they, after all, were in my blood. Ready to have their effects. Over and over again. Banished to return. As they did, showing up in relationship after relationship: Between Tim and Damian,
Between Dick and Jason,
Between Jason and I,
Between Dick and Barbara,
Between Barbara and I and, of course,
Between myself and Gordon after Barbara's accident, And then the one between me and her chair. It exhausts me to recall, but that night I had to add to the list the negative vibes coming from the youngest members of our little group, and wonder how in the world I was going to address the crisis they were cooking up.

The supposed background to all this was a pretty heated fight two nights previous that had Damian fuming in a slow, smouldering burn, like a tire fire, or like the need for vengeance experienced when you're all rage, no imagination, and strategy blurred by smoke. Sophia, for her part, thought it a good thing to rub his face in his own distemper, and showed up at breakfast, unannounced, to do exactly that. Reminding him that the facts plainly indicated that she'd saved his ass on their last mission and that he should just admit it and move on, to which he responded that she'd abandoned him, vanishing into the night and leaving him to fight his way home alone. So there we have it. A conflict of interpretations, and all the facts that should support the truth, lost in the world of angry opinions, and lost yet again in the darkness of denial.

Sophia, clearly aware of what she was aware of, calmly ate her food, feeling Damien's eyes burning a hole in her head but still just sitting there, her every little atom saying 'I'm right. Grow up.' And Damian, in the silence of her assurance, without an inch of freedom there, needing that silence to break into a provocative moment where he could be his flashy self and purge the heat. And yes, he could have made the first move and aggressively turn the tension into a fight, but that would have implied that he had a problem with his own interpretation of things, that he doubted his own convictions. So my poor deranged son, needing to be right and have her bow to his POV, just sat there, choking on his own fumes, bating his breath to endure, and with any luck somehow using his distress to convince her to make the first move, and give him the outlet he needed to get past this thing. I guess, in retrospect, I could have intervened, put my body and my influence between the two of them and force them to … Do what? Lower their glaring eyes and then just reflect their hostility upwards from their plates? Or just give them a chance to transfer the source of the glare from their eyes to their shoulders or their fingertips or some subtlety in their postures? I couldn't. I was responsible. And I knew that if their hostilities were repressed they were going to be useless as teammates. I've seen it a thousand times and lived it too. That odd desire to blow the mission, compromise the ally and let the enemy go free. Because of some forgotten hatred I still feel in my trigger finger, that has me aiming in the wrong direction. So I had to let them work this thing out by themselves. Despite my annoyance. Despite the fact that the tension was killing me. Despite the fact that all I wanted was one dinner. One normal, civilized dinner. Chatty, comfortable, easy. Where my family wasn't seconds from ripping each other's throats out, or murdering each other mentally in a thousand different ways and a thousand different positions.

Was that too much to ask?

But instead I got this. A nasty spat between children. That was also the symbol of everything I couldn't solve. And, worse, the symbol of an unsolvable future. That made everything I'd ever done and everything I've ever lived seem like a futile history grinding its way towards a futile conclusion. But thinking that way, as someone rightly said, madness lies.

So instead I turned my mind towards Alfred, my poor uncomfortable butler who was performing his duties, with his normal graceful efficiency, but to a bare minimum standard, and in the previous twenty minutes had made more excuses to leave the room than he had in twenty years. Disappearing behind double doors to grab the napkins he'd pretended he'd forgotten, or a tray of water glasses he'd conveniently neglected to have on hand, or salt and pepper shakers, one at a time, and all so that he wouldn't have to be his normal living presence, reassuring us with his quiet dignity that all would be well. After his twelfth unnecessary exit, I stopped paying attention and focussed instead on Damian, all pent in his agitation and an eternal three seconds away from pouncing on Sophia. I can't honestly say I didn't understand. I've been in my fair share of endless pauses myself. But understanding has its limits, and I did have my guests to consider, for whom the negative vibes were obviously less than enjoyable and more than unappetizing.

Barbara and Gordon had hardly touched their food, although Jason, who had actually strolled in during all this, was almost finished his meal, gobbling steak like a reformed vegan, and jacking wine like Bacchus. And completely unfazed by the atmosphere. I guess a life spent fighting drug-lords, while secretly angling to become one, held its own fair share of tension. His version of the double life which, like mine, eventually normalized strain, and turned it into an adrenaline rush. I silently wondered if we'd all found our own unique ways into lives that were also punishments. Some twisted form of Karma in which everything we thought we were was both what we were and the opposite of that. I had the family I lost. And yet it was no family at all and never would be, unless what was meant by normal and civilized, was actually abnormal and barbaric. And that what I called crime-fighting was just a set-up, so that my son could be free to plot the death of cities. So that Jason could be Pope of the Church of Hallucinogens. And I could be the reigning King of Fear.

Batman himself.

The dinner was otherwise a splendid affair and a roaring success. Splendid and roaring. Like that room in hell with the cozy fireplaces. And things had progressed smoothly enough so that, with the exception of a few bumps and close calls around some things I'd rather not mention, I was more or less peaceful. Like a child in a world of his own, blissfully ignoring his parents getting out the daggers. But then, snap. Much to my dismay, Sophia suddenly seemed to be fed up with her ill-humour, deciding, perhaps, that my son had suffered adequately in the way in which he was suffering up till then and was due for a change of pace. So she demurely rested her chin on her hands and uttered a very loud, very over-exaggerated, and very dragged-out sigh.

"Would you stop looking at me?" she sigh-said, calmly and sweetly, her mouth curved up like a viper circling its prey. "Honestly, it's like you're obsessed with me or something."

As she'd likely foreseen, Damian all but leapt at the opportunity, like a caged animal tasting freedom after years of captivity. His mouth ripping open to fire off a comeback he'd been rehearsing in his head for the last twenty minutes. But in that very instant stopped and silenced by the sound of my hand hitting the table. I'd only put down a spoon with a touch of added force but the gesture worked, and drew his glare in my direction. A glare I answered with my own. A mild version of my dark night stare. I'd done this numerous times before, and always with a silent warning attached, backed by a threat, backed by a deprivation it was in my power to enforce. Usually that meant no missions. Because, well, missions were his catnip. Take away video games, candy corn, movies, a trip to the circus, he'd go 'who gives a …' and keep on doing what you wanted to convince him he shouldn't. This was the only card I could play. A threat I could rationally regard as a civilized appeal to his higher nature, even though I knew that his higher and lower choices were both going to be based on his ability to measure the relative advantages of the desire to maim later over the desire to maim now.

For a moment it seemed to have worked. I let out a low sigh that echoed Dick's, as we both watched Damian unclench his hands, carefully pick up his fork, and then more or less calmly scrutinize Sophia to see if she might dare to try again. I'd half-hoped that my warning had reached her as well, and failing that, that the hard smack to the leg she'd just received from Dick might to do the trick. But half-hope faded into 'oh my god, here it comes' when Sophia, rubbing her leg, looked at Dick with the fiercest look of betrayal imaginable, the look of a child being punished for a crime she didn't commit. Only she had, and Sophia revelled in it. Both the crime and the denial of guilt. And revelled still more in the look of utter fury on Damien's face as he stabbed at his potatoes with his spoon, most likely imagining the brunette's face in the creamy mixture. I released another sigh, once again echoing Dick's, when the surface tension went deeper, and there we were, like small delusional children, hopes lost but still hoping that the evening might continue semi-peacefully.

Did I say delusional? What I meant was Delusional!

I'd looked down for only a second. A blip on my radar. And instantly regretted it as the sound of something hitting flesh had every pair of hands freezing, and, after no sound of a body hitting the floor and no resonating cry of pain because of a spoon or a fork embedded in an eye socket or throat, every pair of eyes cautiously glancing up. My mind ran through every possibility in that second. The hit was far too soft to be a fist, especially Damian's fist. The sound of Damian caving in someone's head is unmistakeable. So I was somewhat relieved. Furthermore, I had double and triple checked to make sure that there were no weapons concealed in the room. I'd even gone so far as to pat him down before dinner, just in case he was hiding a narrow-handled scalpel or a makeshift stylette. So, somewhat more relieved, I lifted up my eyes and my mouth fell open. I locked on Damian first, to make sure he wasn't injured or bleeding, noted nothing alarming, besides the fire in his gaze, then turned my attention to Sophia, and instantly froze. Because while Sophia was physically uninjured, unbloody, unbruised, I instantly knew two things. One, my son had no idea what hell he'd just unleashed. And two, as he'd hoped, Sophia's pride had taken a hit and something deep within her had changed. She sat, stiffly, probably too flustered to figure out her next move, since there was nothing in her training that specified the proper response when your face is suddenly half-covered with white creamy potatoes.

When training lets you down you have two basic optional responses. One based on instinct or reflex. The other on shock. One inducing you to fight or run. The other to be paralyzed by the headlights and surrender to fate. Sophia did neither. Or maybe both at once. Because her body tensed, ever so slightly, and her eyes flickered upwards, showing white, but just for a second. Then she righted herself, gathered herself, and like a runway model trying out a new expression, let a surprisingly cute and pouty little open-mouthed frown reshape her lips to in turn reshape her breath into a sound I'd never heard before. Something like a growl. Something like a purr. Something like a hiss. Something like the beginning of a song. And while she was doing this casually, even elegantly wiping potato chunks and potato froth from her hair and then littering the table with lazily angry flicks of her wrists. Damian glanced at her with a shameless smile. He had yet to put down the spoon and was giving no indication of doing so, until Sophia looked at him, eyes blazing with something that would have been fury, if it weren't also unreadable.

We read what we read. We know what we know. And both tell us what we think we see. So, initially, what I saw was Damian, a 13-year-old boy trained to attack people with objects or in the way a calculating adult would, improvising a weaponless response pretty much exactly like any normal 13-year-old boy would. And in that moment what did I feel? Well, like a normal dad with a normal family. And as if he could read my thoughts there he was, my boy, sitting there smugly with childishly crossed arms. Sitting there with a dumb grin looking mockingly at a potato-faced girl. Always a laugh riot. Ha, ha, ha. Comic relief. Just the thing to get rid of the negative vibes. Jason actually let out a chuckle. No, a full blown laugh that inspired Damian's grin to grow into a huge toothy smile. Barbara and Gordon smiled too, Barbara, though, with a different sort of knowledge behind hers. We should all have been following her lead. Because although our immediate reaction was accurate as far as it went, it was so because it was a reaction to a moment. And didn't we all just love being in the moment? Why not? It's where we usually won. Usually.

"You got food in my hair," Sophia said calmly, slowly, stating the obvious as she continued to wipe tresses of her potato-white hair, and casually flick clumps of goo into patterns on the table.

"You should be thanking me," Damien said, the smugness evident in his voice. "I think I greatly improved it."

"Ah," she said. "Do you?"

Her voice had taken on an odd quality. Musical, but edged with something like hisses and something like growls. But subtle. I sensed it first. No, Barbara was first, me second, Dick third, who stared at me with a concerned look before sliding his chair back slightly. Jason didn't pick it up at all, just sat in a semi-sprawl with a big smile on his face and a piece of meat in his mouth, clearly enjoying the show before him, and confident he knew where it was going. I silently wondered who he was cheering for, then wondered why I was wondering, or why I'd ever in my life bothered wondering about Jason Todd.

"Do you indeed?" Sophia continued. "Prick."

Damian recoiled a bit at this. Then leaned forward, confident, menacing.

"What was that?" he asked. "I'm not sure I heard you correctly."

"Oh," she said, "I'm fairly sure you didn't. But then when have you ever, prick?" Then she raised her voice as though she were talking to a 90-year-old with Alzheimer's. "What I said," she nearly screamed, "was prick."

Her smile began forming on the 'k' and grew through the short pause that followed; a pause in which Damian's hands formed fists, then one fist in flight, then one fist hitting empty air, apparently thrown off course by a glob of potato casually flicked into his eyes.

All his weight was forward. Following the blow. Which Sophia negligently dodged before grabbing him by the hair, thrusting down and bouncing his head off the top of the table.

"Prick," she said, as she demurely took her seat.

It was Jason of all people who leapt to Damian's aid; who gently raised his head from the table; who offered his napkin to catch the blood dripping from the boy's nose; who administered the concussion protocols, and laughed the whole time, with tears of it brimming from his eyes.

"He's fine Bruce," he said between bouts of it, "just fine. I'll be off now. Thanks. Lovely dinner."

Then Barbara chimed in. "Yes. Perhaps it's best if we go too. But th…"

I interrupted. "Please don't. Thanks is the last thing I deserve from you." I walked over to her, bent and kissed her cheek. "Maybe next time," I said. "If you're willing." She smiled. No, I was wrong. That was the last thing I deserved."

"Bruce," said the Commissioner, extending his hand.

I took it, then pulled it, bringing the old man in for a bro hug.

"Thanks," I said, releasing him. He nodded and turned away. "Oh, Gordon," I said. He turned back. "You know that everyone can see the gun."

"He's got you there, Commissioner," said Jason, still laughing. "But here, I'll walk you guys out." Which he did, graciously, amusingly, with peals of laughter.

"She weaponized potatoes," I heard him say as they were leaving, "potatoes."

So there we were, just the four of us, arranged in a stupid silence. And then five us, with Alfred to the rescue.

"If I may, sirs," he said, "I'll draw a bath for Miss Sophia, and prepare the guest room in the East Wing, upper floor. While you attend to Master Damian."

"I will not," blurted Damian, his nose still bloody, his eyes red, their sockets purple bruises, "not now, not ever, sleep under the same roof …"

"Or in the same world," said Sophia, grabbing at a steak knife and poised to throw. Which she did. All of us too stunned to stop her, helpless to do anything but listen to the whistle of the blade as it shot over Damian's head and landed, quivering, on the portrait of my father, dead centre, on his throat.

"Pricks," she said. "The lot of you."

"You little, ungrateful, disrespectful …" Damian started, reaching for a knife of his own, his face an awful, purpling mask. But we were ready this time. Dick's hand on his wrist. The knife falling.

"What?" said Sophia. "What? Say it. Little ungrateful, disrespectful what?"

"Bitch," he said, "jealous little bitch."

"Jealous?" She was trying to prevent her voice from becoming a shrieking thing in a nightmare. Trying. "Jealous? Of you? Of what about you? Your …" Then she paused, looking around, at all of us. "No, sorry. Got it. I guess we all know where we stand."

"Where we stand," said Damian, finding his moment, "and you kneel."

"That will be enough Master Damian." I'd never heard Alfred quite like that. "Enough. No man with any self-respect would ever speak those words and in that tone to a lady."

"Well, when I see one I'll be sure to remember that," Damien replies

"Oh you're wasting your time Alfred, I've met rabid dogs with more manners than he has," Sophia said, taking a sip of her drink, her hand faintly trembling. "Dogs at least know when they're foaming at the mouth. Dogs at least don't pretend."

"And a dog would know when its ass had been saved," Damian said, smelling blood. "And lick her master's hand."

"You lost that fight, remember," she says coolly, as cool as her training. "Keeping a cool mind and a collective memory of previous battles is essential, Damian. When you don't, your enemies will use that against you. Your mother would be blue in the face with embarrassment."

She was quoting, from The Gospel Of Wayne, steadying herself. Or trying. Looking for something he couldn't deny.

But Damian, even then, and to my shame, didn't skip a beat, as he tapped into a whole new level of ruthlessness.

"At least I have a mother …" he said.

The room fell silent, dead silent, like a small child choking on a half-eaten grape and looking around for her distracted father to save her. Everyone frozen except for the boy who'd said the words. And smiled as Sophia's body started shaking, with rage or sadness I wasn't sure. Maybe both.

"Damian!" I snapped. What he'd said was beyond beyond, and by god, he would pay for it. That sentence had hit every person in the room hard, since everyone, except Damian, had lost their mothers. Part of me hoped that in the haze of his anger Damian couldn't possibly realize how much his words had hurt. Another part of me was mortified, suspecting that he did know, and knew precisely.

Sophia feeling the brunt of the pain, her wounds still so raw, drew back, eyes wide. I feared what was coming. Knew what was coming. It did. What had to come out of that primitive need to hurt someone as much as he had hurt you. But there was more. What was beyond my power to intuit, evaluate, judge, predict.

"At least my mother loved me," she said.

Damian was rigid in his chair. Red-eyed. Every muscle in his body coiled. But Sophia continued.

"And would be so proud of me."

Then she reached out her hand, grabbed a wad of potatoes, and started smearing them on her face.

"So proud. Look mom. Look at me. Anybody got a camera."

Then she dropped her head, resting it on the back of her interlocked hands. Her body motionless. Absolutely still.

Damian looked at her. Unfroze. Got up. Walked out of the hall. I can't remember who led Sophia to the guest room. It must have been Alfred. It should have been me.

It was later. I'd been drinking. In the parlor. Where men go after dinner. To be men. Drinking. Brandy. Old, manly brandy. Sighing between shots. My head in my hands.

Dick and Alfred eventually joined me.

"Quite the night," I said.

Dick laughed.

"He definitely has strong feelings for her, your boy. I wonder when he'll figure out that they're positive."

And if that wasn't surprising enough, Alfred joined in, prompting me to lift my tired head.

"With respect Master Dick," he sighed. "I don't think EITHER of them knows they're positive."

"What do you mean? What are you saying?" I sighed, already feeling a monster of a headache coming on. "That they'll be dating by the time they're 16?"

"Oh no sir. 15, sir. I don't think Damian could wait that long."

"Oh please," Dick snorts, "they'll be dating by Christmas."

"Christmas?" Alfred says, after pausing to run the numbers in his head. Then added, with a greatly disturbed look on his features, "that would seem to be highly irregular."

"Come on Alfred," Dick chuckled, taking a sip of his beer, "it's Damian we're talking about and when has he ever done anything regular?"

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