A/N: So I wrote this before I even knew what was going to happen to the little stinker. Needless to say, it took me a while to write after that. BUT, it's here now, so enjoy please? ImissDamian.
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Damian Wayne is not a normal child. Born into the League of Assassins, the perfect blend of DNA, a purebred being, if you will. The son of the Goddamn Batman and grandson of the Demon's Head.
But. Like other children, Damian Wayne wakes up early on Saturday mornings with his dog to watch cartoons, which is very pointedly called his 'Character Study.' He must, he tells Grayson, at least participate in the occasional recreational conversation at school to pass as 'normal,' if Father really must insist that he attends. Which he does, he finds, for Father returns on a Thursday, and while he doesn't make Damian go on Friday, he says he expects his return to academia on Monday.
Sundays are Damian's favorite, though. Sundays normally mean sleeping in and waking with Titus' head atop his leg and he wakes up slowly, not moving much until Titus is decidedly awake and then they roll out of bed. It's the only day of the week that he descends the stairs in his comfiest pajamas from the long weekend-night patrol, and Grayson's always up before him—which is only acceptable on Sundays. Sometimes they sleep in until noon, but Grayson always insists on making brunch for them both. Sometimes the food is exotic, things he learned traveling in Europe with his parents before the Manor, but sometimes it's just thoughtful. Once, Damian remembers, he made pancakes. Initially Damian scoffed, because even he can make pancakes, but Grayson made pancakes that covered the whole bottom of the pan, the absolute largest pan in Alfred's culinary arsenal. When he was done with a stack of six pancakes, three each, and they were thin and large and almost squares, but still sort of looked like pancakes. Then he proceeded to fold them up into little dogs, like the towels at a hotel, and decorated them with noses and fluffy tails made of whipped cream.
While Damian and Father definitely did not go out on patrol last night—Batman's been going out alone for the past two nights, simply long enough to see some of their allies and make it known that he's here—Damian finds no reason for there not to be brunch today. You see, they're really like breaks for Alfred. Cleverly designed, barely disguised breaks engineered by Dick to let the butler sit back while he cooks. Pennyworth doesn't take days off, which Damian begrudgingly respects, but he thinks it ridiculous that the man would come to the doorway to watch them with that little smile, that quirk of the left side of his lips, really, during his opportunity for rest.
Damian's awake far earlier on this Sunday than most, partly because he stayed in last night, but mostly because of the excited hum running through his body that he only suppresses with the help of his years' worth of assassin training. So rather than jumping from bed and sliding down the banister to the kitchen, he glides across the floor with a deadly grace and stays completely quiet.
Except the kitchen is empty. Well, there seems to be a coffee cup and small plate left in the sink. So Father's awake obviously , as Pennyworth would leave dishes in the sink for anything less than doomsday. Father's…eaten already. On a Sunday.
Damian grits his teeth. Father is not Grayson, he tells himself sternly. And Grayson is an emotional sap. Unless…
His fingernail bite down on the hell of his hands, leaving half crescent marks and his eyes snap shut, because don't get your hopes up, Wayne. But maybe Father forgot? He's been lost in time until three days ago. The days of the week could've slipped even the Batman's mind.
He pads away quickly, first to the main study to listen outside the door. Nobody there. The Cave, then. He must be catching up on Batman Inc. business. Damian next takes a trip to an upper cavern of the Cave, where only some bats reside and the guano is at a minimum.
Batman is sitting at the main computer console. But more importantly, he's working on reports. Entering dates on reports. Damian really doesn't want to sit here anymore in his pajamas in bat-mess, so he retreats to the stairs and enters through the stairs.
Father turns around before he's reached the stairs. It's such an unusual thing that Damian realizes he's not even busy.
"Damian," he says, shock leaking into his voice and creases almost appearing by his eyes. "Is everything okay?" Damian quirks an eyebrow. "Did you—have a bad dream?"
And….he's still in his 'comfiest pajamas.' In the Cave. On a Sunday morning while Father's working. He's never wanted to smack himself in the face so badly.
"-tt-" he rolled his eyes now. "Don't be absurd, Father." His voice lacks a certain dominance, he notes, when he's standing barefoot on the stone floor. He steps forward under the scrutiny of the Batman's gaze, just into sight of the monitor.
"Working on anything interesting?" he asks instead.
"Nothing you haven't already experienced. It's all from my absence."
Damian takes a small step forward, and if it were Dick he'd take the cue and snatch him into a suffocating hug and then Damian as he resists. But it's Father. And so Damian takes a step forward, a small one, and stares at the console's display as he speaks.
"Father…" he clears his throat and locks his eyes onto Father's—something that Dick had informed him was important to convey sincerity. "While Grayson and I thought you to be deceased, I'm relieved to have you back to fulfill your mantle and leave Nightwing to his." Instead of being pleased or satisfied with the statement (which is strange, he thinks, since Grayson would've devoured such pathetic commentary with a stupid grin) he looks absolutely concerned. He's about to interject too, Damian can see, but he's not done talking, so he cuts in again.
"But. Will Grayson be coming back to the Manor?" His eyes flash and he forces his shoulders to relax; for God's sake, he's talking to the Batman. "I mean, he didn't particularly come around before your so-called-passing, and I believe your servant distresses too long away from him."
And for some reason Bruce looks relieved now and, unbeknownst to Damian, he's hiding a smile with some great effort. He rolls his chair back to its original position, resumes reading.
"He comes and goes as he wishes. Dick's a grown man," he chides lightly. "If you think he should visit you need to tell him."
Damian grits his teeth and storms off with a frustrated clicking noise. That was not helpful. He was simply inquiring for information; the least he could do was provide it, even if the man can't make pancakes.
Upstairs, Pennyworth is in the kitchen, or else Damian would show them that even he can make pancakes, prove his father's laziness. But he doesn't. Alfred's simply tidying things, just putting away Father's dishes when Damian reenters, and he looks—well, not young. But not quite as old and haunted as he had. It kept stunning him into almost-stillness. He recovers, confirms that of course he's already eaten and no, he does not require breakfast be made for him. Alfred's face doesn't change, stays stoically polite, but the twinkle in his eye confirms that he knows. More than that, he understands how Damian feels without him mentioning a word of it.
He hurries off with hot ears, up to his room. Understanding isn't what he needs. Damian sits in front of his laptop—the one that Dick helped him pick out—and thinks. And thinks. Since it doesn't seem to be doing him any good, he hangs from the ceiling and thinks, sticking the Velcroed bottom of his laptop to the corresponding Velcro next to his light fixture. Thinking doesn't seem to be working, no matter the quality or quantity of blood flow to his brain, so he simply types.
Dear Grayson,
Please return home at once. Your petty skirmishes with Father are meaningless to me, and I worry his mental state has diminished being lost in time—
Except that Dick would only give a warning to the JLA if he thought Batman was a real danger. Brows creasing, Damian hits the backspace. And, anyway, Father is completely competent.
Dear Grayson,
Father does not understand the value of routine, nor the health benefits that you insist accompany sleeping in once a week. He eats like Drake, in front of the Bat-computer, always reading—
He deletes the whole thing again, simply because you can't say 'Bat-computer' in a civilian computer message.
Grayson,
This is an inquiry to purpose that you return to Gotham once a week. Father has much to catch up on and will be otherwise occupied during his free time. Your presence is requested for sparring and further training exercises. Saturday nights would be preferable, considering your work schedule and Father insisting upon my homework's completion on Friday evening. I will see to it that Pennyworth has your room open and ready if we happen to train late.
Damian.
Damian hits 'send' with slightly trembling fingers, but he chalks that up to hanging upside down for half an hour.