Author's Note: Bonding time between father and son.

Enjoy.

Puberty 7

I am finding Amber's presence to be having an unusual effect on me. Oddly, it is not the physical manifestations of adolescent lust I experienced before. I am discovering that, the more time I spend with her and her family, the deeper the desire grows to be with my father. We have never had an overly affectionate relationship in the way I have with Amber or she has with her own father. We do not hug often. Normally the world must be ablaze or both of us driven beyond breaking point to provoke any kind of tactile embrace. I used to be satisfied with this. My father is the man I have always aspired to be. He is a warrior, unconcerned with such trivialities as sentiment or vulnerabilities in combat. He is highly intelligent, analytical and critical in nature and thought, with no external weakness to exploit. He chides me when I fall below standards and ruthless in training. He demands perfection of me at home, in the gymnasium and on the streets. He makes no allowances for my age or size. I am expected to perform as his equal in the heat of battle and pull my weight. He commands respect and admiration without explicitly asking for it. He is, in short, the ultimate man. Now, that is no longer sufficient. I want more.

It is late in the evening, somewhere around nine-thirty. Father is not patrolling tonight and retired to his bedroom shortly after dinner. I have spoken at length with Amber on the phone, arranging to meet at the aquarium tomorrow afternoon. There is an exhibit she wishes to visit that is meant to be 'cool' in some fashion or other. I have no interest in such frivolities. I agree to go to honour our mutual arrangement. The bet is nearly over. In just thirteen days, I will emerge victorious and she will sing in her underwear, a performance I am very looking forward to. In the meantime, I am playing the role of 'boyfriend' to a fair standard, something even she agrees with. She is not shy with feedback herself. It is yet another parallel between her and Father. After finally hanging up following what seemed like an ice-age of banal conversation and logistical planning, I seek out my father.

I knock on his door once I am attired for bed.

"Enter."

I wander in to find him sat upright in bed reading a small paperback by lamplight. He regards me with a vacant expression.

"Yes, Damian?" His tone does not indicate his mood. It is a marvellous advantage from a tactical standpoint, one I strive to emulate. I clear my throat.

"I was wondering. Might I read with you, Father?" His eyebrows raise slightly.

"Do you have a book, Son?"

"I thought…I thought I might…read what you were reading, Father. Unless this is a solitary pursuit and I am disturbing you." I still find the act of asking for attention through thinly-veiled statements too close to begging. Just uttering this request and retraction leaves me feeling both bitter and contemptuous. I do not wish to appear weak in front of him, and certainly not needy. He shakes his head.

"You are not disturbing me, Son. I just do not know whether my reading matter will be to your liking." He replies before shrugging his shoulders, "However, I think you should judge that for yourself. Please." He beckons me over to the bed and throws back the duvet. He has opened his legs to create a space for me to sit. I warily manoeuvre into position so my back is resting against his chest and my legs sit flanked by his. I am not used to such intimacy with him and it bemuses me somewhat as the duvet is replaced over us. His arms stretch forward either side of my head and splay the book's current pages open for both of us to read. I quickly realise it is poetry, a medium I despise. It serves no useful purpose and cannot possibly compare to the visual or aural arts of Caravaggio's paintings or Chopin's Nocturnes. It is the arrangement of words on a page with the loosest possible structure, where meaning is open to vast and often fantastical interpretation. It is, in short, lazy art, and all the worse for it. "I can already tell you are having second thoughts." Father says with a trace of disappointment. I do not like the way it sounds, particularly after I have sacrificed my pride to to sit with him in this undignified manner.

"There must be some value in this if you read it, Father. I can be…open-minded." I respond despite knowing Mother's education decried anything that stood apart from war and strategy. I had to break such indoctrination practices in order to enjoy both Caravaggio and Chopin's works. It proved difficult for me to see the beauty in anything that did not advance a military campaign or destroy an enemy's resistance, but I managed. This will undoubtedly pose a greater challenge, since I now appreciate the arts and yet still find no beauty in poetry, but I will manage. If recent experiences have taught me anything, I am nothing if not adaptable.

"So, I understand. Alfred tells me you watch WWE programming at least three times a week now." Even though there is no hint of derision in his voice, I still roll my eyes at the insinuation.

"It is for research purposes only. Amber greatly enjoys it."

"He tells me you watch classic matches as well, some of them taking place long before you were born."

"That is hardly difficult when I was born well inside the twenty-first century, Father."

"May I ask who your favourite wrestler is?"

"I have many and I doubt you know anything about them."

"If you continue to take an interest in the subject, I may learn."

"Unless you are planning to steal Amber from me, I would not waste your time. May we please return to your poetry?" I hear him smirk behind me. I am slightly flustered by his attempts to engage me in the same trite conversation I endure with Amber's brothers every time I visit. I forgive them because they are young. My father is old. Very old. He has no excuses.

"Very well, Son." He says before bringing the book too close to my face. "Take hold of it." I oblige and replace his hands with my own. "Arms up." I am confused by this command.

"Father?"

"Indulge me and raise your arms above your chest." I do so. A moment later, his arms loosely coil themselves around abdomen and gently pull me flush. "You may lower your arms now, Damian." I lower them slowly, slightly bemused by the pleasant nature of this restrictive embrace. I think I like this position. "Begin." He says to confuse me again.

"Begin what?"

"To read aloud."

"That is not what I had…"

"Poetry is an oral tradition, Son. Before the advent of the written word, poets would learn verses by word-of-mouth and many hours of repetition. If you are truly open-minded, this will pose no obstacle." He tells me. I open my mouth and draw breath to begin. The first syllable almost escapes before I think better of the situation.

"I…I would not want to sully your enjoyment of these poems by poor delivery, Father. Perhaps we might simply read…" I am rendered silent by his decision to kiss me on the top of my head. He only does it once, but it is enough.

"You would spoil this for me by not reading aloud. You may not sing, but you still have a wonderful voice, one I do not hear enough of in daily life." His arms squeeze my middle to prompt me into trying again. I emit a deep sigh. I want to please him. I clear my throat.

"Who is the Happy Warrior? Who is he…that every man in arms…should wish to be?"

The poem is long, but surprisingly does not bore me as I presumed. I know my reading is hackneyed and lacks all necessary feeling and commitment to charm a real audience, but I make no mistakes. When I reach its final line, I do not immediately wish to cut my wrists in protest. This is a good sign. My reward for perseverance is another kiss on the scalp. I have already grown to like it in lieu of anything more saccharine: Father knows I abhor 'cuddling'.

"Very good. Did you enjoy that poem, Son?"

"It is…not entirely without merit. Do you consider yourself a happy warrior, Father?" I ask whilst noting the author is a man called William Wordsworth. He sounds English, which is of little surprise. If this entry stems from the eighteenth century as I suspect, they wasted many hours writing poetry instead of defending colonies like real men. He chuckles briefly.

"No, Son. While I can draw many parallels with this man, happiness in combat is definitely not one of them."

"Sometimes I think I am only truly happy when I am fighting something or someone." I tell him honestly. Father is nonplussed.

"You may be American, but I know that is not true. You are happy when you are in Miss Gilt's company, are you not?"

"Yes."

"And I would imagine you are quite happy being here with me too. Fighting may be a way of life for many, but it does not have to be yours. As you are discovering, there are a great many things in life that are just as fulfilling as combat and nowhere near as bruising." He says before squeezing me again. It is strange to still draw breath afterwards: normally anyone holding him in such fashion is attempting to cut off my air supply. However, I understand his point. Being involved with another human being, on a level beyond acquaintances that is not born out of practicality or necessity, is rewarding. Amber has shown me that. And yet certain elements continue to puzzle me. I thumb through the paperback as I speak.

"You did not plan this whole affair, did you, Father? Amber's presence at the gala, it wasn't a plant, was it? She seemed…far too receptive to my insults and manner than I would expect." His hand slowly rises from my waist and presses the book down flat in my lap. Before I can ask what he is doing, I feel his fingers underneath my chin. My head is tilted upward so we may look each other in the eye. He shakes his head.

"No, Son. I did not 'plant' her at the gala. Regardless of your solitary nature, I have no fears you will spend your life alone. While your relationship with her has been unexpected, it clearly shows you do not need to play a role to have one. You are fine just as you are. But I must say I'm glad you're taking it all seriously at your age." I would tell him about the wager if I thought it important. He would not chastise me for making such a deal. I believe he might even find it amusing. "Do you think me capable of such cruel subterfuge as that generally, Son?" He asks as a follow-on when I do not give an immediate reply. I shrug, turning another clutch of pages.

"You are a master strategist."

"Yes, but I have no desire to use those abilities to map out your life for you. You are not here to simply obey my wishes. That would be a mistake." It is not a good entry point into an issue that has plagued me since first meeting him under duress. But there is no good way to broach a topic as sensitive as this. I think being here with him now is enough proof we have both progressed far enough to tackle such a fundamental flaw of our relationship.

"Have you ever considered me a mistake, Father?" I say still looking up into his eyes. He frowns.

"You, a mistake?"

"Not by bringing me into your home or giving me a real family, though I am grateful for both. I mean my existence. I know you were not a willing participant in my conception. Accounts state my mother drugged you to gain your consent. If you had been able to resist or escape, I would not exist at all. Do you ever think of me as simply a eugenics experiment masterminded by an unstable woman with delusions of immortality?"

"Sometimes it feels like you ask variations of these questions every other week. What good would it do now to admit resentment or ill will towards you? Damian, I first encountered you in a sewer after being overpowered by Talia and her Man-Bat Commandos. You held a sword against my throat. Within hours of being in my custody, you almost killed Tim, did kill the Spook and destroyed some of my most valuable belongings in a temper tantrum. It was not the best of beginnings for anyone involved. I would be lying if I said I have never begrudged your existence in my life. Ironically, most parents in this country often feel the same way. But, just like all of them, I have grown to love you. Now," He softly tugs my head back down, "If that is enough metaphysical soul-searching, let us examine some more Romantic poets. You seem to enjoy Wordsworth. I think we should try some Blake." He picks up the book and flicks to some of the rear-most pages before stopping. "Here, this was one of your grandmother's favourites." I scan the title.

"The Little Boy Lost? Is this some kind of slight against me, Father?" I inquire as his hands clasp themselves just below my navel. He grunts.

"It is short and, unlike many others of its kind, it has a happy ending. Please indulge me."

"I spoil you sometimes, Father. I hope you realise that." I tell him before clearing my throat. "Father. Father. Where are…"

"As it is written, Damian." I am instructed. I roll my eyes and sigh lethargically. He taps me on the chest in admonishment I likely deserve. He is right: it is brief. I begin again.

"Father! Father! Where are you going? O do not walk so fast. Speak father, speak to your little boy or else I shall be lost. The night was dark, no father was there, the child was wet with dew; the mire was deep and the child did weep, and away the vapour flew." I cannot help but frown. "How is that a happy ending, Father?"

"Look below it." I drop my eyes to the next entry and find it entitled 'The Little Boy Found'. There is a short silence.

"Am I to…"

"Yes, Son. Read it aloud." I clench my jaw in distaste before relaxing it. There is only Father here to witness this humiliation. It is tolerable. I clear my throat in what is fast becoming a habit before a rendition and then speak with confidence.

"The little boy lost in the lonely fen, led by the wand'ring light, began to cry but God ever nigh, appeared like his father in white. He kissed the child and by the hand led and to his mother brought, who in sorrow pale, thro' lonely dale, her little weeping boy sought." I receive a customary kiss on my scalp for this latest effort. I look forward to the gesture now, viewing it as a high sign of praise. I settle back into his embrace further and consider the poems again. "Why did Grandmother like this poem? Was she religious?"

"No. She considered herself spiritual, but not religious."

"Then why covet a poem that is explicitly about a deity? I find the underlying themes somewhat heavy-handed. God will save you if you stray from the path of righteousness or whatever Christians call it. Is that not the crux of these works, the moral?" I say turning more pages to see if I can find religion in more of their narratives.

"It is an element of what is written, yes. She liked it because it was evocative. I like it because it reminds me of her."

"Did she make you read aloud too?"

"Of course."

"In circumstances, similar to these?"

"On occasion. It was more common for her and your grandfather to get me to recite them at dinner parties and charity functions."

"That sounds exploitive."

"That is somewhat silly considering how your mother exploited you for her father's benefit. I consider that a far more heinous abuse of a child than allowing them to recite poetry."

"I would call them even examples of abuse." My father laughs at this, genuinely finding it humorous. To my amazement, so do I. But I do not laugh: I giggle. I had no idea how children produced such a bizarre sound, until now. Children giggle when they are truly happy, as I am with Father. I have laughed contemptuously and derisively at people and enemies as a psychological tool, but nothing more. This is new and…wonderful. Father and I laugh together for almost two minutes. It feels like an eternity. When we stop, I find my head has fallen into his lap during our mutual hysteria. he looks down at me, smiling in incredulity.

"Do you laugh with Amber like this?"

"No. I…cannot recall ever being this…amused."

"Yes. I can't remember ever hearing you giggle. It was…delightful." It seems he is also familiar with the distinction between laughter and giggling. I imagine Dick to have giggled as a child. Jason and Drake, less likely. I sigh.

"Do not grow accustomed to it in future. Once is enough debasement for a lifetime." I caution him. Father responds by combing through my hair from his current vantage point.

"Or perhaps it might start a new trend. I am certain Ms Gilt would appreciate hearing your enjoyment from time to time."

"Perhaps." I say. I consider getting up: his lap is proving to be quite comfortable in its service as a pillow. "Do you think…she would like it if I read poetry with her?" I ask without moving. He shrugs.

"Have you seen anything to suggest she likes poetry to begin with?"

"Not especially. But then, until tonight, I had seen no evidence you liked poetry either, Father. It could be her hidden passion."

"It seems worth exploring. Tomorrow. Tonight, you still have several more poems to read. Think of it as more research for your profile of Amber Gilt." He picks up the book from my chest and opens it halfway through. "Read this." He says placing it in my hands. I consider sitting up again. I decide I don't want to. I'm fine here.

"Can I read it aloud from your lap?" I ask, despite feeling part of myself die inside for having articulated such a sickly request. Father smiles at me, combing through my hair again in giving me the permission I want.

"If you like. Begin."

I hold it above my head and clear my throat. "I wandered lonely as a cloud…"