Author's Note: Variation on the same theme. Damian attends a party with his father and, as usual, is hating it. A chance accident at the buffet table sparks an unusual chain of events. Enjoy.
Girl
I loathe social niceties. My father's insistence on dragging me to every party, gala or ball thrown by this cesspool of a city is never anything but a chore. The only saving graces of being forced into such situations are the concession he must make if I am to go willingly. I despise bowties and dress shoes. With my mother I grew to love eastern conventions and their loose, comfortable clothing. Here in the west, particularly in America, there is no pageantry. I will conform to neckwear only if such a dress code is mandatory. However, even when such rules are in effect, my father's wealth and status means I can flout them.
So I always wear my shirt open at the collar and sneakers of some loud colour. My father tolerates my lack of etiquette with his usual stoicism. Even when all other children in attendance conform to the same rules as their parents, my father is never embarrassed to introduce me to other guests as his son or how proud he is of me. I used to find such behavior strange from him, particularly when contrasting his attitude towards me on the street, but have learned that my age and background also excuses me from social fallacies. I believe I am a novelty to them because I am Bruce Wayne's biological son, but nothing more than an oddity. I do not care in any case. These people are dull and hollow behind their genial veneers. My father is not. That he can become indistinguishable from such a mass of identical faces is testament to his acting abilities and Alfred's lessons. The man that parades me at parties is not my father. The warrior who berates my technique when knocking out a degenerate's teeth is my father. I do not wish for anything else.
This evening I have been trapped at a black tie gala for some bland charity or other, watching people fawn over my father from a chair near the buffet table. I have not eaten any of the food, since it looks plebian at best. I have been nursing a glass of cola for most of the night, but now find the glass is empty and I must venture back amongst the barnyard animals for a refill. I shove my way through some bloated bodies and reach the refreshments. As I pour myself a new glass, my elbow jostles the person next to me. There is a splash and then an angry groan. When I turn to my left, I find myself confronted with a girl of thirteen or so glaring at me and indicating her soiled dress. I'd say she is four inches taller than me.
"Well?" She says expectantly. I frown at her. Does she expect an apology from me for her mistake? She spilt her own drink, lemonade by the smell of it, whereas I did nothing.
"Well what, girl?" I ask setting down my pitcher on the table. She looks bemused, indicating the large stain on her bosom.
"Aren't you going to say something?" She says, apparently trying to prompt me. I consider.
"Yes. Unless you are soliciting men, I would advise you to cover that up so as not to draw undue attention." I say helpfully before walking off back to my seat. A moment later, I am shoved hard from behind. I am able to recover without spilling my drink. When I turn to face my assailant, my glass is upended on my shirt, staining it brown. It is the girl again, now smirking contemptuously.
"Now we're even." She tells me. I shrug.
"Does that mean you will leave me alone now?" I inquire, already disinterested in her presence. My eye is once again drawn to her chest. She seems to already have cleavage. Perhaps she is older than I thought. She shakes her head.
"No. What's your name?"
"Do you not know it?" I ask. I was certain my father had paraded me in front of every crowd of people here, including those with obnoxious children, at least once. She offers incredulity.
"Wow you're arrogant. How old are you, like nine?"
"I'm eleven, Harlot. I take it you already walk the streets if your wardrobe is anything to go by."
"Harlot? Where did you go to school, Oxford in the nineteenth century?" She says with a giggle I cannot interpret. Her expression has softened somewhat. I am unsure why.
"I have studied at many institutions, some of which are located in England. I take it you are educated mostly behind a massage parlor or some other place of ill-repute?" I say with a sneer. She laughs this time, almost as if my scathing insults are somehow not intended to hurt her. I do not understand.
"That silver spoon is crammed so far up your ass it's practically coming out your mouth, huh?" She replies smiling, "and yet you're still staring at my boobs like every other horny boy at this shindig." I avert my eyes. They are somewhat attention-grabbing.
"I have to go. Excuse me." I say turning to leave. She grabs hold of my shoulder and I almost launch her into the air by preparing a shoulder throw. As a consequence, she is half-mounted on my back. Instead of getting off in disgust, the girl instead wraps her arms around my neck, forcing me to counter her weight by hooking my arms underneath her legs. I believe this is called 'piggy-backing'.
"You're crazy strong for an eleven year old." She remarks from her new vantage point. I feel the gentle pressure of her breasts against my back and am unsure what to do next. Is this courting of some description? Perhaps if I were a circus clown, such activity would be part of the mating ritual, but this…this is…
"Are you going to carry me somewhere or not?" She asks, prodding with her heels like one would a horse. I am aware people are now watching us like they would animals at a zoo, wondering if we will perform or not. I hastily move away, heading towards my seat once again. "Is this even hard for you?" The girl comments as I reach the chair thirty seconds later. She climbs down as I shake my head.
"No. You seem a healthy weight without being too obese or skeletal in your appearance." I say moving to sit down. She sits in my seat instead.
"Seriously, who are you? You're not like the other boys at this party. Aren't you going to tell me about how rich you are or how big your last birthday present was? Aren't you people all about bragging?" I frown in uncertainty of whether she wishes me to divulge such information or not. My father usually fields such inane questions. I do not reply. I merely stare, trying not to look at her bosom. Its appeal is very odd. She rolls her eyes, a clear sign of frustration, before sighing. He presses a hand to her chest. "I'm Amber Gilt. I'm thirteen. My parents are here because we won tickets in a raffle. Now it's your turn to speak."
"Why should I speak? You seem to have more to say."
"Because it's polite and, even though I'm not a rich bimbo with airs and a short skirt, I'm still a lady." I do not speak to lower classes out of principle. I find them vulgar and coarse. Girls of any ilk are even worse. However, I cannot remember ever finding myself engaged in such a conversation at these events. It is actually interesting. So I give her an answer.
"My name is Damian Wayne. My father dragged me here because he's the richest man in Gotham and has to attend."
"Didn't you once chair your dad's company? I saw it in the papers one day a while back." The girl says, presumably to demonstrate she can read. I cannot fathom another reason to bring up such banality. I am dismissive of the accolade.
"My father's absence demanded some action on my part. I was only formally CEO for a week. Then my father returned to helm the company."
"Hmm. Give me your jacket."
"Why?"
"So I don't look like a drunk tramp. Give me it."
"I doubt it will fit you."
"Let me try anyway." I reluctantly remove my jacket and hand it out to her. She thumbs the lapels. "It's really soft. What make is it?" She asks putting it on. It fits everywhere apart from her chest, but still stops it being an eyesore. I am strangely upset by this and do not know why. I shrug.
"I don't know."
"You're the richest boy in Gotham and you have no idea where your clothes come from? Every other boy here is spouting drivel about Gucci and Versace. It's like some competition to see who can spend the most money on the least amount of fabric. Aren't you interested?" She checks. I frown at her analysis.
"No. Besides I am not the richest boy in Gotham."
"But you said your dad is the richest man in Gotham."
"Yes. He is. But that is his money, not mine. I have no interest in spending money that is not mine. When I come of age, I will not inherit his wealth. Even if it were offered, I would not want it for hedonistic exhibitionism. I would rather earn and spend my own money on worthier crusades." I tell her. I have never told a stranger such things before, even under duress. My hopes and ambitions are private and for me only. It baffles me how much I have already disclosed. It feels oddly freeing to do so. She smiles at me.
"Like what?"
"Medical research, mostly. I would like to find ways to regrow limbs or repair spinal injuries so that crippled people may enjoy a better quality of life." I tell her, despite the fact my mother has already successfully substituted my broken spine for a donor and can also regrow limbs should they be required. It is close to the truth, more so that I usually share. Her expression seems to be one of approval at my choices.
"You're pretty weird, Damian, for any eleven-year-old." She informs me before grinning, "But that's probably why I like you so much. Plus, you wear some pretty kick-ass sneakers for a black tie do." She says eyeing my multi-colored skull plastered Converse sneakers. She both looks and sounds sincere in her praise for them. There is a pause.
"Am I supposed to-"
"Yes, Mr. Wayne: pay the lady a compliment in return."
"About your choice of eveningwear?" She stifles a laugh. I frown in confusion.
"You have such a nice way of putting things, Damian: it's just unreal how well-spoken you are." She assures me before collecting herself and nodding at me, "yes, a compliment about my 'eveningwear' would be nice."
"Your gown does not look cheap." I offer. She rolls her eyes but continues smiling.
"That's good enough for a first try."
The rest of the gala goes quickly. We go over to a sofa and talk for a while longer. She volunteers some information about her family and what her parents do. I return it by listing some of my hobbies. When I mention gymnastics, she also claims to be into the discipline. She suggests a handstand competition, but retracts the idea when I mention where her dress would fall if in an inverted position. We then somehow graduate to arm-wrestling, which I win, and thumb wars…which I lose. Were she not a girl, I would accuse her of cheating. After that, more talking follows more games until I am somehow locked in a bitter scoring contest, attempting to recite the alphabet without any vowels and only consonants that do not feature in my full name.
"X, Y…"
"Wrong!" The girl giggles, "I know your last name has a 'Y' in Damian! That makes the final score 38-37 to me! I win!"
"I still maintain your last name has a 'U' in it, Ms. Guilt."
"Nope. Gilt, without a 'U'. Don't be sore because you lost: you're a hell of a lot better than my brothers at playing and they've known the rules for years."
"How can they when the rules and the games change so frequently?"
"Practice, Damian, practice makes perfect, right?"
"I suppose there is merit in such a statement. What now?"
"I get to choose a reward."
"And what do you wish for your reward?"
"You to kiss me on the lips."
I look at her, imagining either I misheard her or am being teased in some fashion. Neither is correct. I have read such gestures are indicative of romantic intent. I also read other literature, arguing in the opposite direction. She taps me on my temple.
"Don't overthink it, Damian. It's just something girls like to do to boys to show their appreciation. I thought it might be fun for you to show your appreciation for me instead. You know how to kiss right? You are from this planet, right?"
"I know the mechanics. Shall I-"
"Hurry up before the next ice-age arrives."
I pucker my lips as I see so many idiots do in the archaic movies Father makes me watch with him. She does the same. I lean forward and she does too. Our lips press against one another and the whole motion is awkward. I do not see the appeal of this ritual. I lean back and frown at the wet texture of my lips. I wipe my mouth and hear her laugh. "Think I've got cooties or something?" I cannot help but feel embarrassed. I have done it incorrectly it would seem. I move my eyes to another part of the room.
"I am not stupid…Amber. I know such nonsense does not exist." I respond, addressing her by her first name for the first time. It is pleasant-sounding.
"You're cute when you're flustered." She remarks before stroking my cheek. Her attention is drawn elsewhere. "That's my mom calling." She announces as her green eyes drift back to mine, "Maybe I'll see you around, Damian. Want your fancy coat back?"
"Keep it. My father will not mind."
"Thanks for making this bearable. See you." She kisses me on the cheek, stands up and leaves without another word. I sit there in silence, imagining how unusual this gala and my own attitudes to others have become. I rub my cheek before smiling. Father sits down next to me a moment later. The large ballroom is nearly empty now and he ventures to unfasten his tie and the top button of his shirt.
"Your evening seemed…fruitful." He says in a way that tells me he saw everything. I look at him and find he is flashing me a genuine smile, something he only reserves for those he truly cares about. I roll my eyes and scoff.
"Really Father, you see what you want to see."
He thumbs the now dry stain on my shirt. "I see this was supposed to be retaliation. You would never spill it on yourself. She seemed very nice, son." I bat his hand away and shake my head.
"She was just making a nuisance of herself to annoy me." I argue only to receive a light clap on the back of my head.
"We both know that is not true, Damian. If you like, I could arrange-"
"I can find her, Father." I interrupt producing the folded piece of paper she slipped in my pocket whilst leaving. It has her cellphone number on it in purple ink. "Thank you anyway."