Disclaimer: If I had any ownership over the members of the Batfamily, this would be real.
The scent of cinnamon and the sweet concoctions of childhood swirled about, near tangible in its wafting, wandering sense of leisure. Fine dust particles floated in the vaguely aging air, dancing in the chilly breeze that was announced by a clinking bell and an opening door. A father and son shuffled in quickly, closing the door behind them and allowing the air to still once more. But, rather than cascade back into a drowsy state of rest, the dust particles shifted about, attempting to dodge the propeller of a passing toy plane as it whizzed through the space above the stocked shelves.
Dick breathed in a deep breath, reveling in the familiar smell and feel of the store around him. The generous heat of the place dispelled the October air, replacing it with an embracing warmth that seemed to encompass all. Bright colors covered everything, a collage of reds, and yellows, and pinks, and all the others in between, making an assault upon one's eyes that was both blindingly unashamed and gloriously joyful. Children ducked and weaved throughout the overflowing shelves, their world of imagination being brought to new limits amid the abundance of stuffed animals, toy models, and whirring gadgets.
Unlike the other stores in the area, Howie's Corner gave no prelude to being sophisticated. There was no posh classical music playing, no uppity adults demanding the best service in snobbish tones, and no need for indoor voices. Established in 1923 by Howard Johnson Sr., and named for Howard Johnson Jr., who had in fact died from tuberculosis at age nine, Howie's Corner had long been a refuge from the trials of society for those who still remained innocent minded. Gotham's favored toy store had pulled through the Great Depression, had faced down the Second World War, not to mention all the others following, and even boasted survival against the Joker himself. And, through it all, Howie's Corner had remained a nightlight of hope to the children of Gotham, allowing in kids of all ages, and of all family incomes. The latest owner, a young man by the name of Tobias Rexford, affectionately dubbed 'T-Rex' by the kids, vowed to uphold the famous store's legacy.
"Toby!" Dick called in greeting, raising his voice slightly over the din of excited kids and the hum of electric toys. He offered a hand to the friendly face behind the counter, clasping the other's hand in a tight grip and receiving a fond chuckle.
"Dick?" Toby checked in surprise. "It's been a while since I saw your mug around here," he joked.
"Sorry I haven't stopped by lately," he laughed back sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Things have been a bit hectic," Dick admitted.
"Yeah, I heard you took over WE just recently," the toy store owner realized. "But," the brunette young man beamed, "even big business CEOs have time for play," Toby laughed. "Now, I was trying to be polite, but what's with the kid?" he wondered curiously.
"Uh, Toby, this is Damian," Dick quickly introduced the toddler, who was entirely too distracted by the playing children and constant movement of the lively store to even maintain his customary scowl.
"It's nice to meet you, Damian," Toby nodded, gaining the boy's attention only long enough for Damian to glare at him, before a toy blimp bobbing along the store's ceiling caught his eye. He watched it leisurely float along until a few kids ran past him and he turned his head to scowl at them, both in distaste and in confusion. "You know, I have a nephew about his age," the store owner continued thoughtfully. "He doesn't really have many friends. Maybe we could get them together sometime?"
"That'd be great," the young billionaire agreed with a grateful smile. "I don't think Damian's ever even seen other kids before," he went on, only half-jokingly.
Just then, a few kids accidentally knocked into a shelf and bumped nearly half the toys off. They quickly called out an apology of 'Sorry, T-Rex' through their laughter, and scampered off before they could be yelled at. The store owner simply rolled his brown eyes in fond exasperation, turning to Dick sheepishly.
"Gotta go pick that up," he explained hurriedly. "You've got my number. Call if you ever want to set up a playdate," Toby bid farewell, ducking around the counter to clean up the fallen toys.
"Well, Dami," Dick looked down to the entranced boy in his arms, "guess it's just you and me," he joked, before setting the toddler on his own two feet and letting him wander around.
Immediately, Dick noticed with distaste, his son went for the toy guns.
Oh, don't get your panties in a twist, Grayson, he shook his head at himself. You used to play with Nerf guns all the time.
Correction, Dick remarked mentally, strolling along leisurely behind the fast-paced toddler, you still play with Nerf guns. Especially when Roy and Wally are over.
Howie's Corner always made sure that there were opened toys for the kids to play with, even before they begged their parents to buy them something, so it wasn't hard for Damian to grab a miniature gun. He inspected it curiously, crouching down so that he was bent over the unrealistic toy, and was thoroughly disappointed when it occurred to him that it wasn't the real thing. Damian scoffed in the derogatory way that Dick was quickly growing accustomed to and went to discard of the false gun.
Dick chose then to step a little closer, shifting restlessly on his feet, as he had been cooped up all day and hadn't even gone on patrol last night. Reacting on instinct, Damian fixed the Nerf gun into a hurried grip and fired a single shot at the shifting figure. The foam bullet bounced right off the middle of Dick's chest. It took Dick milliseconds to process what had happened.
Of course my assassin son knows how to use a gun.
Deciding to play along, Dick let out an exaggerated cry and swiftly fell to his knees, jokingly flailing out his arms before finally collapsing onto his back beside the now distraught child. "I've been shot!" he called playfully, just barely able to hear the clatter as the Nerf gun hit the hard-wood floor. A sound akin to that of a strangled cat met his ears, and he immediately opened his blue eyes to find Damian red-faced and teary-eyed.
Note to self: kids surrounded by death actually don't like it when you play dead.
Smooth, Grayson.
He worked quickly to fix the wobbling frown on his boy's face. Dick plucked the child up off the ground and easily tossed him into the air a few feet, making sure to capture him safely into his arms after Damian's descent. He'd been hoping for maybe a scoff, or at least to wipe the frown off the boy's round face. The tiny little giggle he received instead was entirely unexpected.
Which is why, when Dick had sat up and Damian was held in his lap, his face was completely frozen in a state of shock.
Damian, raised by assassins, laughing?
The boy's smile, which had already been far too miniscule for Dick's liking, began to slide off the moment he realized that his father wasn't laughing along. Instantaneously, his brief moment of pure, innocent joy was wiped off his face and replaced by a look of steely coldness, both absolute dread and quiet acceptance and oh, Damian, did they punish you for laughing? But, Dick on the other hand, could hardly see Damian's expression through the tears that clouded his vision. A light-hearted laugh, straight from his belly, bubbled its way up his throat, bursting forth with a strength he had forgotten he had had. Laughter, his laughter, rose up in the warm, cinnamon flavored air, dancing alongside that of the children, until all he could hear was the innocence of life. And damn, did that feel good.
He couldn't remember when he had last felt so light. Certainly not for the past month. But, even before Bruce…when was the last time he had gone without feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders? Weeks, months, years? Had it been before the fight with Superboy Prime? The time Bane broke Bruce's back? Or even before the Joker killed Jason while he was off-world? Maybe even since before he ever left the Robin title? He simply couldn't remember.
But he loved it. Loved the way his stomach and chest were practically sore from his prolonged laughter, or how the corners of his eyes crinkled of their own accord. Dick loved how his shoulders shook, and, in effect, how he could see Damian bobbing up and down in his arms. Breathing in a deep sigh, Dick finally calmed himself down, wiping away the remnants of tears that had slipped past his eyelashes and smiling affectionately at the frozen boy on his lap. Damian's face seemed to be halfway between a grin and a grimace, not quite a neutral look, but far too confused and anxious to be either good or bad.
"It's okay, Dami," Dick assured quietly. "See? Everything's just fine," he continued softly, gently ruffling the toddler's hair before brushing his bangs out of the boy's eyes.
That seemed to do the trick, and suddenly the once distraught toddler was letting out a scoff and scowling half-heartedly. Dick decided to let it go for the moment, seeing as how Damian's hand was tightly clutching a fistful of his shirt, and opted instead to get up and continue with the shopping trip. Just as he was about to look at more of the Nerf guns, Damian let out a tired yawn, ineffectively attempting to stifle the noise. He looked down at the boy, and watched in fond amusement as the dark-haired head lolled left and right, but the toddler resolutely refused to fall asleep in such an unknown area.
Dick decided to wrap up his trip in the toy store, and quickly ended up picking out more than twenty different toys. He paid for them with his golden credit card, politely asking for Toby to send them to the penthouse, as Dick was positive they wouldn't all fit into the Bentley they had arrived in. Soon, Dick was carrying a near-slumbering Damian out of Howie's Corner. The young man was fairly confident that the toddler was only forcing himself to stay awake because he still didn't trust all the children, if his pointed scowls were anything to go by, so instead of trying to get Damian to cooperate, he merely conceded to get to the car and go home.
Spoke too soon, Dick nearly cried when, after his first step out of the store, he was flocked by a mob of ravenous paparazzi. They surrounded him on all sides almost instantly, pressed entirely too close for comfort and constantly blinding the young billionaire with their camera flashes. He felt his son tense automatically in his arms, before seeing the boy whip his head around frantically. A small fist was clutched fiercely in the collar of his shirt, and Dick could just barely hear the boy's quickened breathing over the roar of the crowd. On pure instinct, Dick tightened his arms around Damian protectively and used his free hand to press the toddler's face against the crook of his neck, trying to shield him from the greed of the paps. He could feel Damian shivering in his hold, the tension that seized all the boy's muscles, how the toddler constantly attempted to twist in every which way to survey all his enemies, while at the same time clinging desperately to his father's torso.
No, Grayson, it wouldn't look good to kill any paps, Dick convinced himself, trying for levity, if merely to distract himself from the anger that rushed through his veins. The damned, greedy, idiotic excuses for humans had no right, constitutional or not, to invade his personal space and terrify his innocent son. He reminded himself to keep a neutral expression, forcing it to stay at least seemingly happy and not in any way angry or pained. He couldn't afford for any rumor regarding his 'Loss of Control' or 'Emotional Breakdown' this early on.
They would still come, though, if the shouted questions on all sides were anything to go by. 'What's with the child, Mr. Wayne?' was all but screamed in his ear, while on his other side another reporter piped up with a 'Is this your first charity case?' He ignored it. 'What are your plans for WE, Richie?', or 'You honestly plan on raising a child?' They were all the same. The same questions he had heard ever since Bruce had taken him in as an eight-year-old. It was all pointless babble, babble that he had been trained to effectively drown out until he was perfectly capable of weaving and shoving his way through the crowd.
But Damian didn't know how to do that. And Dick wasn't surprised in the least that the toddler was taking it so poorly. Dick himself had been a mess during his first paparazzi run-in, even after being around raucous crowds all his life. Granted, it had been almost immediately after the death of his parents. Still, Dick was near positive that Damian had only ever seen a handful or two of people in his life, the majority of which were masked before him. It must've been Damian's first encounter with a crowd of any sort.
Even so, all Dick wanted was for the paps to take their damn flashing cameras and shove them up their asses. And that was the least gruesome of his thoughts. Normally, he tried to remain at least somewhat polite around the press. After all, he was 'Gotham's Prince', and he had a reputation to uphold. But, for whatever reason that he honestly couldn't describe, nothing made him angrier than the paparazzi making Damian so miserable. In his sleep-deprived, utterly-confused, and completely-lost mind, that alone was unforgiveable.
Vaguely, he wondered if Bruce had ever felt the same about him.
He was spared from dwelling on that when a familiar face suddenly broke through the drone of confusion. Alfred. Standing there, proud and stately, yet with a distinct spark of annoyance and disgust in his deep eyes. The ever-loyal butler and the family's voice of reason was holding the back door of the Bentley open, patiently waiting for Dick to shove his way through the crowd. Dick managed to push past the final reporter, feeling all the others breathing down his back and unceremoniously forcing him onward, and all but dove into the familiar car with a heavy sigh of relief.
Dick landed on his side, Damian still held tightly on top of him, and he pulled his knees to his chest so that Alfred could close the door. Even when Alfred had climbed into the driver's seat and all the doors had been closed, the roar of the crowd was still achingly loud. Determinedly, the Englishman worked to drive the Bentley out of the area. But the paps were no less than obsessively persistent. While Dick cradled a shaking and quietly sobbing toddler, reporters and photographers literally pressed against the windows to try and get a good picture. Thankfully, the Bentley had a permit for tinted windows, which meant all the pictures being taken were completely useless. That didn't stop them, though, as a few of the most daring went so far as to climb onto the car's hood and try to snap pictures from there.
Alfred was growing exceptionally disgusted. A tick was developing in his forehead, and he'd most certainly require some Advil when they returned to the penthouse. "Master Richard, if you would please console the young master. I do believe my next actions may startle him a good bit," the butler suggested lightly, leaning on the horn slightly and revving the engine.
The sudden noise from the car caused Damian to twitch in Dick's arms, his sobs increasing impossibly more. Dick, now sitting up in his own seat, gently rocked the inconsolable boy, quietly murmuring reassurances into his ear and rubbing a hand delicately up and down Damian's shaking spine. A splash of yellow at the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Dick shifted his gaze from his son to see a familiar blanket folded neatly in Damian's newly installed car seat.
Alfred, what would I ever do without you? Dick thought in relief, reaching over to grab the fleece. What every kid needs, assassin or not. A security blanket. He carefully draped the cloth over the distraught boy, tucking him in so that it was secure, but not so much that the boy felt trapped. Dick laid his arms over top the blanket, wrapping his son in a warm hug.
"It's okay, little robin," Dick murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Damian's head. "Daddy's here. Daddy's got you. You're safe."
He continued to repeat that mantra on a gentle loop, settling into a rhythm of rocking the toddler and soothingly rubbing his back. Dick didn't even notice when Alfred finally managed to pull away from the paps, nor when they pulled back into their private garage at Wayne Towers. Instead, he focused on the damp face that was pressed into the crook of his neck, the gentle puffs of breath that ghosted across his Adam's apple, the tiny fist that held onto him as if he were the owner's lifeline. Halfway home, Damian had cried himself to sleep, his head resting gently on Dick's shoulder and lolling slightly with every turn of the car.
"I assume everything is alright, Master Richard?" Alfred broke the silence quietly once they were parked back home.
"Yeah, Alfie," Dick confirmed softly. "Everything's alright."
Unseen by the young heir, a proud smile spread across the English butler's aging face, before he slipped out of the car and walked around to open his surrogate grandson's door. "Come, sir," he encouraged gently. "Shall we take the young master upstairs?"
"Sounds good," the young man agreed with a warm smile, carefully climbing out of the car and repositioning Damian in his arms so that the unconscious toddler would be more comfortable.
Between the two of them, Alfred and Dick managed to grab all of their newly purchased goods in one trip and made their way to the very top floor of the building. The ride up was quiet, broken only by the near-silent breathing of the lift's three occupants. Occasionally, Dick would shift his weight from one foot to the other, and the collection of shopping bags in his hand would crinkle loudly. In retaliation, Damian, held securely in Dick's other arm, would murmur in his sleep and shift his head, the boy's button-like nose wrinkling even in his slumber.
"Alfred," Dick spoke up, his whisper smooth after all the years of practice.
The butler merely cocked an eyebrow, making no move to interrupt, but letting his young charge continue on his own volition.
"I got him to laugh," he said softly, gazing down at the boy in his arms. "I mean, he was about to start crying and everything, but I got him to laugh."
"It was only a matter of time, sir," the Englishman observed sagely.
"And I was happy again, Alfie," the young heir went on, seemingly unable to stop now that it was all coming out. "Sitting there, in Howie's Corner, laughing with my son, I was happy."
Alfred adopted a sympathetic look, losing propriety for a moment to rest an aging hand on his charge's shoulder. He could feel the young man quivering slightly, his head bowed, his dark hair falling into his eyes. Even now, when Dick stood a few inches taller than him, and his shoulders had broadened out, all the butler could see was the scrawny, innocent little eight-year-old that used to come up to him with scraped knees and bruised elbows, asking with wide eyes for bandages and hugs to make all the pains of the world go away.
He wished for nothing more than to hug his grandson's troubles away now.
But, even so, Alfred steeled himself. He knew what was coming. Alfred always knew. It was the same thing that he had gone through with Bruce after they had taken in a precocious orphaned acrobat. Even, to a lesser extent, the same that he had endured with Thomas, mere days after Bruce's birth. Fatherhood was a grueling task, and Alfred knew very well how hard it could be to keep one's head above the waters of doubt.
"But I feel like I've forgotten how," Dick murmured miserably. "How…how am I supposed to raise Damian, to act like everything's fine in front of him? How am I supposed to go on when I feel so broken?"
"One day at a time, dear boy. One day at a time."
"I'm getting tired, Alfie," the World's Second-Greatest Detective sighed in utter defeat.
"Then perhaps a nap is in order for the both of you, sir," Alfred suggested primly, just as the lift's doors slid open into their penthouse and they stepped off.
Alfred couldn't help the smile that spread across his face in response to his charge's chuckle. Dear boy, you are far too young and bright for these troubles. But that seems to be a recurring theme in your life, now doesn't it? Setting his armful of bags onto the kitchen floor, he swiftly took the remaining burden from Dick's arms.
"It is best if you and the young master retire to the master suite," Alfred instructed primly. "I will be preparing young Master Damian's room and awaiting the day's deliveries. Shall I awake you in a few hours' time, sir?"
"Alfred," Dick practically groaned petulantly. "I don't need a nap."
He received a knowing, stern look from the butler. "Master Grayson, I will not allow for you to run yourself to the ground, and I can tell from the look in your eye that that is precisely what you are planning to do."
"But, Alfred," he protested. "I don't…I don't want to wake him up," Dick admitted, hanging his head shamefully.
The butler's eyes softened. "Rest assured, Master Richard, children have a talent of warding off the darkness," he reasoned wisely.
Dick watched him for several more seconds, his dark blue eyes flickering as if searching the butler's eyes for any signs of lying. But he knew better than that, and so trust was quickly restored to his gaze. "Right," he agreed with a slight grin. "Thanks, Alfie. I'll see you in a few hours."
At that, the heir shuffled past the kitchen and down the hallway, eventually disappearing into his room. Behind him, he was almost positive that he imagined a fond chuckle, but he ignored it in favor of dragging his feet over to his California king-sized bed. Dick hadn't realized just how much exhaustion weighed down on him, just another side-effect of being trained by the Bat, but when it finally crashed into him, he didn't even bother changing into a pair of pajamas. He simply toed off his shoes and socks and quickly stripped down into his boxers, carelessly dropping his clothes into a heap on the floor. Soon enough, the toddler's own attire joined his, until Dick settled both himself and his son under the warm covers.
A part of him was surprised that Damian had stayed asleep the entire time, before he realized that the boy probably hadn't slept well the night before, even with the sedatives in his system. Dick let the thought go, instead opting to turn onto his side and wrap his arms protectively around Damian, who was sprawled out as if he was trying to take up the entirety of the bed. Tucking the boy's mop of black hair under his chin, Dick let the toddler's gentle breathing ground him, keeping the swirling shadows at bay.
And, maybe, Dick decided vaguely, his consciousness already slipping away, there wouldn't be any nightmares.
Word Count: 4,080
A/N: This is my favorite chapter so far. And I hope all of you liked reading it as much as I liked writing it! Damian playing with toy guns, a toddler's first laugh, his first run-in with the paparazzi, and his first nappy time with Daddy!
Anyway! I'm really, really, REALLY sorry that I didn't message everyone that left a review! It was a terribly hectic week, and then I was procrastinating, and then suddenly it was Friday! UGH
Shout outs to: FanGirlBecky13, maximum scythe123, thegirl1001, Canagan, Shadow Typhoon, Dr. IceKnight, and Luv2Swim for favoriting or following! Special thanks to Guest, Drawn2Danger, Shiroi Misa, shikamaru B5, ricestalk-2004, MarissaTodd, FlightfootKeyseeker, Xenitha, soccernin19, and BriannieBee64 for reviewing (sorry I didn't PM you guys)!
Welp, that's about it.
I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! And please review!
Have a wonderful week!
~AvenJackel
Question of the Week: Are we ever going to establish a real plot in this?
To be revealed next week…
