A/N: This one's much shorter than the last. A couple of things I forgot to add last night in my sleep-deprived state. 1) My apology for any tense screw-ups I may commit. Pleasepleaseplease tell me if I do it. I used to write in past, but have recently discovered the joys of the present tense in use in these one-shots. 2) I forgot to include a disclaimer. So.
Disclaimer: I don't own…well, anything. Starving artist working at a movie theater, I can hardly afford this computer. (It's actually school-issued.)
Enjoy! (^_^) and review!
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Sweat pours down Damian's neck, drops of the salty water fly from his short black hair as he stumbles to a halt.
Again.
He doesn't know how in the world Drake manages the intricate aerial feat that always seems to turn his opponents to the defensive in one fail swoop. Damian's seen Red Robin execute it to near-perfection in both training as well as in the field, and it never ceases to raise an intolerable spike of fury in the pit of his stomach every time he sees it firsthand. He'd seen it one too many times, the (approximately) twelve degree imperfection in the genius move. It eats at him.
He doesn't know what kind of household Drake grew up in, but Damian didn't leave things imperfect; it wasn't in his blood. In fact, he's shocked that Grandfather would want anything to do with the indolent pile.
Those extra twelve degrees would give the snap required for optimum use of the spinning momentum. Damian groans. Twelve degrees? Hell, he can't even land the damn thing. If he wasn't the son of the Batman, he might consider the possibility that he missed something, some vital piece of the carefully choreographed Swan Queen's dance.
A deep chuckle from the side of the mat snaps Damian to attention—how had he not heard Father approaching?—to see the Batman himself in nothing more than thin training gear, with a slight upward curve in his mouth and a rare sparkle in his eye.
Bruce recognizes the flip maneuver as Tim's in an instant. While other parents might recall their children's report cards or Christmas ornaments made, Bruce knows by heart all of his kids' fingerprints, can picture every costume ever worn (no matter how briefly), and their signature fighting moves. This one may as well have Red Robin's 'R' painted on the front.
The move's next to impossible. Bruce knows, Batman's tried it. Trained it, utilized it in combat—but only on rare occasions. Only when there's enough adrenaline in his system to whip it out, and when he does he has to picture Tim's rendition.
"Exhausting yourself isn't going to help, Damian," he chides, the small half smile still lifting his lips.
Pride and embarrassment battle on his son's face for no more than a couple of seconds before he sighs, looking very much his age with a bruise on his elbow and his disheveled hair.
"I began training with intentions to correct Drake's careless errors," he says evenly as his shoulders bend with deep breath. "And I plan entirely," he continues, voice practically daring his father to tell him otherwise, "on reaching my goal."
Bruce's mouth flattens into a much straighter, much more commonplace expression for him. There's a fine, blurry, jagged line between determination and obsession he knows all too well, but it's obvious that Damian's unwilling to admit defeat against Tim, so he doesn't mention it. For now. Instead, he raises an almost bemused eyebrow.
"'Careless errors?'" he echoes. "I think you're getting dehydrated if you think that Tim's execution is any—"
"Father," Damian cuts in. "While Drake is, for all thorough sentiments, doing the move wrong," Bruce doesn't point out that it's Tim's move, making the way he does it the right way by default, "I admit that he is the closest so far. This is…unacceptable."
Bruce shoves a lecture about brotherhood and teamwork into the recesses of his mind. He and Damian are finally getting along better—with some coaching from 'Dr.' Dick—and he doesn't want to pollute the opportunity. "Well, what do you think you're doing wrong?"
/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/O/
Neither father nor son hear the motorcycle approaching, each equally engrossed in their training exercise. So when Tim pulls off his cowl in passing, both guilty parties freeze in a comical picture of frustration. Bruce has got a calm expression on his face, except for the vein that sticks out in his forehead when presented with a particularly puzzling challenge, and Damian, picking himself up from the ground—again—has got his small hands balled up into fists.
A few seconds pass as Tim eyes them warily, and then a few more, until he shakes his head at the two and proceeds to unsnap his ammo belts.
"Nope, nu-uh," he declares, walking off to what they call the 'Locker Room.' "I don't even want to know."
Bruce thinks about stopping him, but he doesn't think his youngest son's ego can take the hit. He decides that it's a secret of willpower and bird-lite bones.