The Bat's son was used to fury-painted cheeks and jaw lines taut from words they wished to spill. He had grown to accept the way his words cut, sharp as knives: and so had they.
Brown replied with amused lilts to her tongue and Drake wore anger as white as his knuckles, but just as much as Damian wanted to battle with knives, they didn't, a parry that they were comfortable with.
Very rarely did those opposing stumble, and very rarely did his words strike. And even when they did, he gladly met anger with more attacks. No longer was he ten years old and forcing his dominance through tearing words, staring up at men twice his age and finding what would hurt them the most, but it was a power he held in the corners of his mouth for chances to use it.
And he did. And she cried.
Barriers formed with concrete and steel failed him when her eyes watered, and his pride kept him from taking back words he had spoken. He had meant them, certainly, but he hadn't meant them.
Clenched teeth did nothing to keep himself from recoiling, and they did nothing to keep him from feeling. He spoke to put them in their place. He spoke to keep them at arm's length, because their lives were weaker than his, and bonds were not important.
Bonds were what killed you, he had always known, but he never knewhow until she crumbled like ill-placed bricks, shoulders turning away from his only attempt to console her.
"No - No. I get it."
It was in the bitter tone of voice that told him exactly how he had made others feel, makeup smearing and her whole being shaking with anger, with hurt barely kept under her skin.
"I get it. But - I can fix being too loud. I can change. But you will –… willnever be able to change your black heart, Damian."
It was his turn to look down at his aggressor. He was ten years old, furious and forcing his worth, chin raised for extra inches while surrounded by men twice his height.
He didn't apologize.