Night 4
Monday mornings-the bane of every existence above the age of ten; except, perhaps, Damian, who was up bright and early, serenading the household with the sounds of his metal-cutting chainsaw, welding torch, and power sander.
"Damian! What the bleep is going on?!" I hollered at him, still in my pajamas, as I made my way to his gym around four in the morning. It felt like we'd barely gotten back from our nighttime patrol-he couldn't have gotten more than two hours of sleep. Meaning I couldn't have gotten more than two hours of sleep. Meaning heads were going to roll soon, if the end of the world wasn't at stake.
Damian took his sweet time stopping the machine, making sure his . . . whatever it was . . . was just right before unplugging the welder and removing his heavy metal face guard. He covered his creation with a tarp and then, finally, turned to look at me, face a picture of innocence. "Is something the matter?"
"Yes," I seethed. "Yes, something is. Why are you making so much goosefeathering noise at four in the morning?!"
"Speaking in technical terms, it's actually closer to four-fifteen."
"IRRELEVANT!" I bellowed.
He gave me a dour look. "You're hindering science. I happen to work best in early hours."
"And I happen to sleep best in early hours!" I nearly shrieked. "Especially when I'm working an early shift that day!"
Damian stared at me for a second. "At least you aren't in danger of being late this time." he said eventually.
I had to fight the urge to strangle him. "Wh-you-ugh-" I bit my lip, suffocating the part of my brain that wanted to drop-kick the stupid kid to Alaska. "Do you always make this much racket this early?"
"It never bothered Bruce."
Of course it didn't. Damian's old man probably got up at three.
"Dick surely didn't put up with it." I tried.
"He was often out all night."
Nooooooot surprising.
I rubbed my forehead, somehow knowing that I wasn't going to get anywhere with this conversation. "We're leaving at seven thirty. Be ready for then, okay?" I didn't wait for an answer, just plodded up the stairs and back to my room. I lay back on my bed, but it had gotten cold and I was wide awake; soon after I got back, Damian started up with the torch again. It had been only four days since I'd taken Damian on, and already I was prepared to kill him-or myself.
My computer was flashing; email alert. I sat up and reluctantly opened it, figuring it wasn't like I was going to get any sleeping done.
Yo, Steph!
Already emailed Damian, like, a hundred times, but he's ignoring me. Haha. Anyway, hoping you're doing okay-he's quite a handful, isn't he? Ha! Things on this end are going fine; I should be back sooner rather than later, so expect me this Saturday or Sunday. No more babysitting for you, yay! Bruce contacted me about the situation in Mm-Bali, and he and Cass are expecting long delays in their trip. I'll be driving in from Bludhaven soon to take over D-watching, but that means you'll have to swing over there a night or two in return. Hold the fort down until I get there-but don't go on any more midnight walks. Bruce says it's too dangerous. I'll explain more when I get back.
About Damian. Don't let him convince you that he's made out of steel. His weaknesses are there, if you just look. He thinks that he doesn't need anybody, and Bruce lets him think that he doesn't need anybody, which is why it's our job, you and I, to teach him otherwise. There's a lot about Damian that you must find hard to understand-why he seems so detached from the universe at large, why he never just says what he means, why you have to guess at his every word-but that's because you've never been anything but an open, bright person. Just you being around him, I think, is good; so don't stop being around him. Keep making sure he has no choice but to open up to you. I know-absolutely-that you can save him.
Better go now-try not to kill each other before I get there-
best regards,
DG
That was trademark Dick; reading my mind. Like he knew what was going to bother me before I even was bothered. I deleted the email(standard procedure for those of us who are as paranoid as mad scientists)and flopped down onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. The torch was a distant whine in my ears. I know that you can save him. From what? Damian wasn't in any danger, as far as I could see, but I could almost hear the urgency in Dick's tone as he conveyed the words to me. In fact, the whole email was full of alarming statements. He and Cass are expecting long delays . . . don't go on anymore midnight walks . . . he thinks he doesn't need anybody . . . it's our job, you and I, to teach him otherwise . . . I know-absolutely-that you can save him. Bruce and Cass were caught up in some trouble in Mm-Bali; for some reason Bruce was ordering a stop to patrols in Gotham, and Dick seemed to believe that Damian was on the cusp of something, something that only Dick and I could change his mind about.
After a few seconds' consideration, I shot Dick a reply, though I knew he hated being replied to. Too many threads to track. He changed his public email address every other week.
D-
Permission to move operation to inner Gotham?
-S
I got a reply in seconds, short and to the point.
Go. Now. Then stay put.
Great. And I had work in three hours.
"Damian!" I hollered, during a break in the screeching. I was packing my duffel bag already. "Get up here!"
He appeared in seconds, not even winded, his expression slightly annoyed until he saw me. "What are you doing?"
"Packing. You, too. Get enough stuff to last you until Saturday. I just got an email from Dick; we have to get out of here."
Of course, he had to go and ask the logical question. "Why?"
"Because I'm the babysitter and I said so!" I snapped. Just because he asked a logical question didn't mean I had to give a logical answer. "And don't bring any power tools!"
As far as any technology and know-how I had could tell, we weren't in any immediate danger-but that didn't mean it took longer than six minutes for Damian and I to be packed and getting the heck outta of Dodge. . . um,Wayne Manor. We crammed ourselves and our necessities(which, sadly, did include at least one electric screwdriver that I could detect, and probably about eight other nefarious hardware items that I could not)in my beat-up Camero in less time than it normally took us to get dressed in the morning, and before the sun had even risen we were pulling into the parking garage opposite the four-story brownstone that I had grown up in with my mom.
"No place like home." I muttered as I pulled my duffel bag out of the trunk of the car, having given up convincing Damian that he could survive six days without half of his jungle gym.
"You don't sound happy." Damian observed, locking the doors and then checking something on his handheld computer. He traveled with more gadgets than Khloe Kardashian did clothes.
"I'm not happy." I replied. "My mother warned me that I'd be back here within the year, and I hate to prove her right."
"It's an emergency."
"That won't matter. Trust me. Somehow or other," I grunted as I lifted one of Damian's three mysterious black bags, "it's going to be my fault that we're in danger. Maybe the way I dress or something."
"The way you . . . dress?" Damian sounded wary, as if he didn't actually want to know what was wrong with how I dressed.
"It's a mom thing. Trust me." I started out of the parking garage.
"As my mother was more likely to criticize how slowly I killed a man, I will have to." Damian said, matter-of-factly. I chose not to respond to that statement, mainly because there was simply no diplomatic way to condemn his mother as a psychopathic egomaniac.
Oh, sure, I know we all make choices-and I'm surely not in the running for Mother Of The Year Award, either-but something about Talia a'Ghul just rubbed me the wrong way. It's hard to forgive somebody who brought up their child to hate you, you know? It's kind of like a personal insult. And besides, even if it was really Damian's grandfather's fault, well, she was his mother, wasn't she? It was her job to make sure he grew up well.
"Well" does not include the pathological need to carry power tools with you in an overnight bag, not to mention the fact that I was sure he was armed with enough sharp and pointy things to conquer a small Arab nation, which, incidentally, he probably used to do before breakfast, at the age when most children were playing tea party with their stuffed elephants and dreaming about being Batman. Damian, on the other hand, was more focused on actually being Batman.
I rang the doorbell with reluctance, half-hoping that Mom was out and I could check us into a hotel or something, but, no, she opened the door right away and practically jumped out of her skin with excitement. Don't ask me how she was already up and dressed before five in the morning-I couldn't tell you. Mom Sense, or something.
"Stephanie! Come right in! I had a feeling you would drop by!" Well, there you go. "I just knew you wouldn't miss a visit to your old mom, now would you? I brought you up to be a much nicer girl than that-and, oh, you're staying!" It was hard to begrudge Mom the happy look on her face. Since Dad kicked it, she'd been pretty much on her own, because by then I was jumping around Gotham with a flying rodent on my chest(a picture of a flying rodent, not an actual flying rodent-eew). I'd felt really bad when I moved out, but I figured she was a human being, right? Capable of seeking out companionship if she needed it? Still, it must have been lonely, because she didn't even ask about the Duffel Bags Of Doom. She just lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw Damian-another Mom thing, the instant love of any minor who they can compare to their own child.
"Who's this?"
"Damian, Mom. You remember-Bruce's kid?"
" . . . Bruce?" Darling scatterbrained Mom.
"Yeah. Bruuuuuuce. Bruce Wayne, guy I work for? Adoptive father of my ex-boyfriend?"
"Rick?"
"No! Tim! Remember him? The kid of that man who died in that accident?" Well . . . it wasn't really an accident . . . but let's not go there. "Bruce adopted him, and . . . y'know . . . we worked together . . ."
Comprehension dawned on Mom's face. "You mean-this is-Robin?" she whispered the last word, as if spy cameras were tucked in the corners of the room. Damian made a face. "She knows my secret identity. Brown, why does she know my secret identity?"
"Because she's not totally stupid!" I snapped at him. Okay, I was still a little miffed about being woken up so early.
Mom looked shocked. "Stephanie. Don't yell at him! Yelling is counterproductive to a child's growth!"
"You yelled at me enough." I mumbled sulkily, left behind as Mom shepherded Damian into the kitchen for some hot chocolate and waffles. I felt very much the abandoned child.
"She used to make me waffles." I whispered to Damian as we sat down to eat. "All through my pregnancy."
He scowled. "I'm about to eat. I do not want to hear this."
"All I'm saying is, you're not special, Baby Bop. Don't go thinking you're special. She's my mom."
"You are childish." As if that summed up my every problem, he began eating. And if anybody can eat in a snotty way, it's Damian. Just watching him annoyed me, so I switched my attention to my mom, who was fussing around in the kitchen like it would kill her to sit down.
"Mom. Have some breakfast." I invited.
"I'm fine." she waved a hand. "I was just thinking where I'll put you two."
"I'll sleep on the couch." Damian immediately offered-very generously. Too generous for even waffles to have produced; I was instantly suspicious.
"I'll take the couch." I said. "And you'll be in my room, where I can keep an eye on you."
"Ever heard of reverse psychology, Stephanie?" Damian asked innocently. "Maybe I just wanted you to put me in your room because it has an easier exit-as you would well know."
"Ever heard of reverse-reverse psychology?" I countered. "You're just trying to freak me out."
"That," Damian said with dignity, "doesn't make any sense." He speared a waffle and took a bite, holding it like some kind of food-on-a-stick.
"Seriously, Mom, sit down-you're making me nervous." I pleaded. Mom sat, but she fiddled with the placemat and napkins; folding, smoothing, unfolding, and generally fidgeting in a way that made it clear that she thought she should be doing something more important. "We shouldn't be long." I said, trying to break the tension. "A few days, at most. Just until Dami's brother gets back in town." I omitted the part about us being in danger-I didn't want Mom to worry more than she already did. Damian, however, had no objections.
"Once he's here, we'll crush our enemies like cockroaches." he promised. "No one can stand against us once we turn and fight." He looked at me. "I think we could take them on. This running and hiding doesn't sit well with me."
Mom turned pale. "Enemies? Stephanie, what's he talking about?"
"Nothing." I said quickly. "Seriously, nothing. There's no danger-"
"Why'd you make us leave then? Didn't Dick tell you-"
I stomped on Damian's foot. "We're going to get some air. Thanks for breakfast, Mom." I pulled at Damian's sweatshirt until he got up and followed me out of the room, and then the apartment. Once we were out the back door, onto the fire escape, I whirled on him.
"What the hell was that for?! God, Damian, will you be socially adept for just once in your life! Any idiot would know not to make my mom worry like that!"
Damian glared at me, then turned on his heel and went to go back into the apartment. I caught his sleeve, pulling at the brown fabric uselessly. "We aren't done here." I said, probably a little more harshly than I should have.
"I am." Damian said, his voice like stone. "Lying to the ones that you claim to love is not consideration. And I am sick of being lectured by you." He yanked out of my grasp and tried to go back again. I blocked him. "Wait-"
I stopped. His face-his expression-he caught himself quickly, his features morphing into a typically sullen look, the kind you would expect from someone having an argument, but it was too late. Damian the Immovable had slipped up-I had seen what he didn't want me to; his face, about to scrunch up in what I was almost 100% sure was tears. His eyes were glassy; he ducked his head and swiped at them, muttering incoherently about wind.
His weaknesses are there, if you just look.
"Damian."
"It's cold out here. I'm going in. If you want to stay out, I would suggest getting more weather appropriate attire."
"Damian, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you." I took him by the shoulders. "I'm sorry." I repeated. "I forget that-"
He stared up at me, his blue-green eyes clear once again. "That I have feelings?" he asked, tone clipped. "Everyone has feelings, Brown, no matter how hard some of us try to repress them. But don't waste your time thinking that you've hurt mine." He twisted out of my grip, making as if to leave.
"Stop." I insisted, blocking him for what felt like the hundredth time. "I meant that I forget that you're still a child, Damian, no matter how hard you try to forget that yourself."
Damian remained quiet, his gaze sliding downwards.
"I said I was sorry!" I realized I was starting to raise my voice. "Look, I see that you're trying, Dami." I lowered my tone, leaning closer to him. "But I want-I mean, please, will you talk to me? Tell me what you're thinking." I started to flounder. "I can't read your mind, I don't know what I'm saying half the time, but even if we hurt each other, I want to know. Like, communicating, you know? I want to keep screwing up and cornering you on fire escapes and being wrong about you. I want you to prove me wrong-and, you know, you're right, I'm stupid. I don't always get-"
"You're not stupid." Damian said in a low voice.
"What?" I was positive that there was no way I'd heard him correctly.
"You're not stupid, Stephanie." he said more clearly, looking at me again. His face was red from the chill, or maybe from embarrassment. His hands were knotted at his sides in the pockets of his jeans. "What I'm thinking right now is that you're actually quite smart."
My cheeks burned. He looked so serious-so-I pushed the thought away. I was not going to think that an eleven-year-old boy looked sexy. That was just sick.
"Um. Thanks."
"You obviously need a lot of work in the looks department," he went on, still louder. "And your fighting techniques are juvenile to say the least, though I suppose your prowess at video games could possibly redeem you there-still, I don't see why Bruce thought that taking you on was-"
"OO-kay, then!" I cut him off. "I see that the bonding moment is over. Let's go back inside; you're right, it's cold out here."