Good Dad Bruce Wayne - Tumblr Posts

Why is Family Line by Conan Grey literally Tim Drake dealing with the trauma from growing up in an abusive Drake household

My father never talked a lot, he just took a walk around the block 'Til all his anger took a hold of him and then he'd hit

I say they're just the ones who gave me life

Scattered 'cross my family line I'm so good at telling lies. That came from my mother's side, told a million to survive.

It's hard to put it into words how the holidays will always hurt. I watch the fathers with their little girls and wonder what I did to deserve this

How could you hurt a little kid?I can't forget, I can't forgive you'Cause now I'm scared that everyone I love will leave me

Oh, all that I did to try to undo it, all of my pain and all your excuses. I was a kid but i wasn’t clueless (someone who loves you wouldn’t do this).All of my past, I tried to erase it But now I see, would I even change it? Might share a face and share a last name, but We are not the same

Jason was acting strange.

Bruce was worried. It had started when the batfam investigated the hideout of a new gang in Gotham. They had attacked Jason earlier that week with strange weapons, so Batman, Nightwing and Red Hood followed them to a warehouse. They saw the men in white suits with the weapons, several vans and some sort of powersource they called a core. Batman and Nightwing were making a plan when one of the men activated the machine housing the core.

Suddenly Red Hood had gone ballistic! He attacked them recklessly, with much more force than neccesary. Nightwing had to sto him from beating one of them to death! Batman was furious. They left the men for commisioner Gordon and took some evidence to the cave. When they arrived, Jason looked shaken. Bruce wanted to scold him, but the look on Jason's face made him pause. He needed to focus on the case, but he knew he couldn't bring Jason along. So he 'benched' Jason. Thats what the Robins called it, anyway. But someone needed to guard the evidence, they had no idea what this power core even was.

He expected Jason to protest. To insult him to complain. But when Bruce told Jason to look after the core, he instead looked suprised. Really? Jason had asked. Then Jason had told Bruce he could count on him. Red flag number 1. This had confused Bruce, but if it kept Jason from following then it was fine.

Then Jason had started carrying the core everywhere. He held it in his hand, close to his chest. He stayed in the manor, wich was red flag number 2. Damian had caught him talking to the thing numerous times. Alfred had heard Jason in the library, reading a children's book out loud. Tim noticed whenever they discussed the gang of men in white suits that Jason would leave, instead of listening. Dick had even caught Jason singing softly to it! Too many red flags to count.

Bruce was worried about him. He was starting to worry about mind control! But when he had tried to confront Jason, he had cut him off. Jason told Bruce that he knew he had messed up at the warehouse, that he had gone too far. So he was really happy that Bruce had trusted him with this. After that Bruce had been too stunned to say anything about it. But they knew the problem had to be adressed. During dinner, the whole family where going to discuss this matter with Jason.

That was before the core transformed into a glowing, white haired child.

My favourite thing ever is when Jason is drawn to resemble Bruce because I KNOWW his ass would HATE it😭😭

Dick: hey Jason you haven’t forgotten our meet u— oh my god are you ok?? What happened?

Jason *rocking back and forth on the floor with a traumatised look in his eyes, whispering in horror* someone mistook me for Bruce in the grocery store today.

Random kid at a charity event pointing at Jason standing grumpily in a corner: who’s that?

Bruce (smiling fondly): that’s my son Jason!

Random kid: he looks like you! :D

Jason: *leaves the room*

Bruce (running after him): jason, Jason they didn’t mean anything by it, Jason, you’re going to jump off a balcony just because of a child’s observation Jason?

To anyone who thinks Bruce has a clear and consistent favourite child I raise you this: it is infinitely funnier for Bruce to have a complicated and elaborate “ranking” system of his kids that only he’s privy to.

Picture this: Batman, dosed with truth serum, gets asked as a gag from one of the goons holding him captive who his favourite bat-vigilante is and instead of giving a straight answer, he launches into this whole explanation about the ranking system and who’s in the current lead, who’s hanging behind, etc. At some point (this is a mystery to everyone involved) a whiteboard appears and he starts explaining his system like he’s a football coach before an important match. Out of nowhere he starts pulling out little cardboard cutouts of his kids and pins them to the board. At some point the red string comes out.

Jason hasn’t killed someone in a week? Automatically promoted to favourite. Tim hasn’t caused an international incident in the past month? Puts him a few points ahead that keep decreasing the longer he refuses real sleep (20 minute power naps don’t count Tim! Says powernap inventor Bruce Wayne). Cass gave him a hug this morning and wished him a good day? Favourite until he gets a call from dick telling him (without shouting!!!!) that he’ll be there for this week’s Sunday dinner. Duke accidentally scratches the Batmobile? Demoted to the “in trouble” zone (which, honestly, that’s where his kids spend most of the time in😭). Damian did not attempt to free all the animals in the zoo they visited? Favourite. Until Bruce found out he was just trying to conceal the cat hidden in his room that Bruce explicitly forbade him from keeping.

Dick arrives at the family dinner with a busted shoulder and a bruise the size of Texas on his face? Gets demoted so far down that even azraeil scores higher than him. He’s in the “in trouble” zone for a constant month after that. Oh one of them survived an almost death? Favourite for at least the next week. At least. Multiple people survive an almost death? EVERYONES the favourite. The least favourite is the growing grey hairs on his head.

The end of day results are decided by who bothers to wish him goodnight and if all of them have fucked up in some way the past week then Jon (Kent) becomes the automatic favourite until someone cracks a joke that Bruce actually finds funny.

The favourite child changes daily, hourly even, and his kids are aware this system exists and keep trying to crack the code but he always Knows and just smirks smugly.

TW: Major Character death (not shown), contemplation of murder and suicide, torture (not shown but aftermath shown), dissociation

His code as Batman meant something. It prevented him from crossing the line that he couldn't come back from. Bruce Wayne, as a born and bred Gothamite, knew that no one, not even the best of them, were uncorruptible. (His best friend had at one point been the White Knight of Gotham, one of the best out there, and now he sat, rotting in a jail cell on two hundred twenty-two counts of assault and murder). The point of the code was to prevent Batman from becoming corrupt and, even then, all of his allies where given contingencies to defeat him.

Bruce knew that his code was necessary but, holding Jason, his baby, his son, made him regret that code ever so badly. Jason's body was still warm, the blood trickling from an unseeing eye still wet.

Jason had always puffed himself up to be larger than he was, like a Robin fluffing up its wings and plumage when startled. But now, without his confidence bolstering him and his excitable chatter, Jason looked so small. So damn small. He fit so well into Bruce's arms and it made him want to scream because, just last week, he had held Jason in his arms just like this. They had been rough housing, not training, when Jason had started a tickling war that was ended when Bruce picked him up (just like this, God just last week he had held his boy just like this) and hugging him to his chest.

Now, all that personality was gone, leaving behind a small, broken body. Bruce had always been an atheist, no God could be so cruel, but, in this moment, he prayed that the God of his mother existed. He hoped her ideas of an afterlife for all was real. His boy deserved peace. Peace that Bruce should have provided. God, he should never have let either of his boys become Robin. Jason had said that Robin was magic but what type of magic allowed this to happen.

Bruce clutched his Jaybird to his chest. There was a broken, keening sound coming from somewhere, it sounded almost animalistic. He needed to protect his boy from whatever that was. Jason told him that he loved being under his cape, that it made him feel safe. Bruce covered his baby (oh God, he was so small, so fragile) with his cape.

The sound continued, it sounded breathless and pained. It was... It was coming from him. Why was he making noises like that?...everything was fine. He needed to get to Jay and protect him. He needed to get to... He was holding Jay. That's why he had that cape pulled in front of him. He needed to...he needed to.

Oh God, his baby was dead. He needed to... "Superman!" he shrieked and then, like something had come undone in his throat, he started screaming. (At least the strange noise had stopped. His baby was safe. His baby was dead. Oh God)

He needed to... He... He

Bruce heard the sound of someone landing and then concerned shouting. "Bru....are you?....breathing too hard....Jason?"

Breathing. That's something that Jason wasn't doing (because his baby was dead). Bruce needed to do this for him. Breathe for the both of them while Jason couldn't . "... hyperventilating!" Yes, that was the word for that.

Bruce lost consciousness and he didn't truly regain it until he stood in front of Jason Wayne's grave.

The first thing Bruce noticed was how fresh the dirt was. The second was that he was covered in it. "Wha- what...?" he croaked.

He hadn't realized someone was there with him until his unspoken questions where answered. "It's been eight days since the warehouse. The funeral happened two days ago. You've been sleeping here. I took care of telling everyone." Clark, a Midwesterner through and through, normally spoke in pleasantries or veiled language. He flew around his ruder opinions as skillfully as he flew around missiles. Today, he spoke Bruce's language. Factual, straight to the point, and without feelings.

Bruce nodded, "I didn't do anything?" he asked. At the moment, his secret identity was that least important thing to him. His son was dead. But, he had another son. He had other people that would be targeted if his secret identity was compromised. He needed to... He needed some control.

Clark looked at him sympathetically, "You've been catatonic. You haven't spoken or gone out since..." he paused, trying to keep his voice from emoting too strongly "since the warehouse. You've been sleeping here since the burial." Clark looked every bit his part of a bumbling, well-meaning man from the Midwest. He opened and closed his mouth several times, looking for something to say to make it better.

Bruce knew no such words existed. The last time he had lost someone this close to him, Bruce had become the Batman. This time it was his son and not his parents. This time it was directly his fault. Bruce didn't know what this would make him but decided to save Clark from having to say something, "Is Dick... Does Dick know?" he managed to ask, his voice dampened with emotion.

His sons were as thick as the thieves they stopped. Dick made it a point to visit the manor at least once a week, making the nearly hour-long commute from Blüdhaven often enough that his co-workers at the precinct teased him for still living at home. Dick had understood Jason in ways Bruce couldn't. He had known the anger Jason felt (although Dick had been much more vocal and obvious in that anger) and had been able to settle Jason's doubts. Beyond that, Jason had looked up to Dick. Dick was everything Jason wanted to be ( even though Bruce had regularly assured him that he was enough by himself). Dick and Jason had been brothers and having to relive his greatest sadness again to another person who would feel it just as keenly would surely break Bruce.

Clark took a shaky breath, "I told him. He's still off planet for his mission. He'll be..." Clark continued talking but Bruce wasn't listening. A mission. That's what he needed (maybe it could fill the aching pit in his chest). He knew what he needed to do. He would-

His train of thought was cut off by Clark grasping his shoulders desperately, "Bruce. I need you to stay with me. What can I do for you?" he said in a carefully measured tone. With Dick gone and Alfred still recovering from pneumonia and dealing with grief himself, Clark was the only person standing in his way. Bruce needed him gone.

He drew in a shaky breath. He was not a good person. "Clark," he said, "I appreciate you for staying but I need some time to grieve. I'll call you when to come over?" He needed to phrase it like a question, as if he wasn't already sure that this was what was going to happen.

Clark gave him a small, sad smile, "I'll be listening. I'm here for you, Bruce," and he hovered for a moment, examining his friend's face, before flying away in a streak of primary colors.

Bruce looked after his friend with a grim expression set on his face before turning to his kid's grave. Jason was from the Narrows. In the Narrows, there were only two rules; look out for your own and never forget. Bruce intended to grieve his baby in a way he would have appreciated.

-

As Batman, it should be concerning how easy it is to break into Arkham. Through minimal surveillance and the use of the shadows, he had slipped through the high-barbed walls and into the holding area. From there, it was child's play to strangle the Joker into unconsciousness and lug him out of this sick joke of an institution.

-

Bruce chose a warehouse by the docks. Perhaps Jason's sense of drama had rubbed off on him or maybe he just knew it would be easier to get rid of bodies at Gotham's favorite dumping site. Either way, Bruce was a little apprehensive about starting the grieving process. There was a reason he had the no-kil policy, after all, he wasn't sure if he could ever come back from that. Luckily, he planned on punishing everyone involved in Jason's death so he wouldn't have to worry about whether he would snap of not after he took the Joker's life.

As Bruce waited for Joker to wake up, he found himself grateful that Dick wasn't on earth to see his mentor and father figure become a complete hypocrite. He thought Dick might be angry at him, not for killing the Joker but for being selfish. When Dick's parents had died, Bruce hadn't allowed him his revenge. The entire point of making Dick Robin had been to keep an eye with him, to prevent him from doing something he would regret. And now, without Bruce's Robin? Bruce was doing the one thing that he always swore he wouldn't do. It was a bit ironic.

"Ha Ha HA HAHAHAHAHAHA!" the Joker had remained slumped as he started cackling. He wasn't wearing any of his customary makeup so his bleached skin was splotchy and the ring of bruises around his neck was obvious. And Bruce was enraged. The Joker, the goddamn Joker, got to sit there and put on his fake little insanity act while his little boy lay, rotting, underground.

"Batsy, Batsy, Batsy, where is that little bird of yours? I want to pluck his little wings!" the Joker's macabre grin was highlighted by his malicious eyes. Joker kept rambling, cracking jokes about Bruce's dead son. It was thoughtful of him, really, making Bruce's decision so much easier like that. The Joker always thought he had the upper hand, he leaned heavily on the fact that Batman didn't kill. Maybe if Bruce hadn't been so damn soft before, his son would still be living. Maybe his sons had had a point when they said that stopping crime wasn't enough. Bruce needed to end it. And he would start and stop by ending the Joker, the man who killed his Jaylad.

Bruce smiled. Joker claimed to be the king of jest but he had never truly gotten a taste for dramatic irony. The Joker stopped his tirade, "Hahahaha! Finally crack a smile, did we, my darling Knight" Bruce pulled out the weapon he had been hiding behind his back. A crowbar.

Joker, for all he claimed to be insane was very much a normal man. Yes, he was a clinically diagnosed sociopath. Yes, he dressed in brightly clashing colors to commit comical crime. But, he was not insane. He, like everyone else, did not enjoy pain. He was very much not looking forward to being beaten with a crowbar.

Bruce does not know what sort of things the Joker had said to his Jason as he beat him to death. Knowing Joker, it wasn't anything good. Bruce, however, was not trying to emulate the monster. He was trying to get justice (Vengeance). Besides, he could put so much more strength in his hits when he stayed silent.

The Joker had tried to laugh. He did, when Batman first started swinging. It was just so damn funny that the Bat had decided to go for revenge. It was just so unlike him. Now, however? After seconds or minutes or hours of being beat by a viciously angry man stronger than some meta humans? Laughing was starting to hurt. "Ha ha hghhhh," he gurgles. Oh dear, there was blood. At least he knew that Batman wouldn't kill him. At least... and then Batman took of his cowl. He was going to die. He stopped laughing.

Bruce wanted the Joker to know he was about to die, like his Jason had known in his last moments. He looked at the Joker, not as Batman but as Bruce Wayne, and smiled. The part of his face not normally protected by his cowl was splattered with blood and the crowbar in his hands was dripping in a steady pattern. The monster in front of him was deformed. His nose broke in multiple places and his mouth missing teeth. One of his femurs was broken in two and some of the bone was sticking out in a grotesque mockery of the human form. Good. The Joker wasn't human enough and didn't deserve to look like one.

"I've wanted to do this for years," he growled and he took sick satisfaction to see the fear on Joker's widened, yellow eyes as he swung back. Good. Jason was scared in his last moments. He was just about to take his final swing down on Joker's head when his elbow was grabbed. Clark.

"Let me go." he grounded out. "Let me kill him."

He looked back at Clark, glaring, and Clark just looked impossibly sad. Then, quicker than his eyes could truly process, Joker was knocked out and Bruce's crowbar was no longer in his hands. "I can't let you do this. You won't be able to live with yourself."

Bruce scoffed. He was Batman. He thought of everything, "Obviously. I plan on killing everyone responsible for Jason's death. You don't have to worry about me 'snapping' or something once I kill this son of a bitch." Seriously, Clark. His contingencies had contingencies, of course he hasn't over looked the fact that, in murdering someone, he would become a villain in need of stopping.

Clark looked stricken, his eyes so damn sad. "Bruce..." he said, a whisper of a prayer. "Bruce, what about Dick?"

Bruce didn't understand. He had thought about Dick, that's why he was doing it while his boy was off planet helping people (he was so proud of him) "Yes? He's not here so he won't have to deal with me becoming a horrible criminal."

Clark let out a choked sound, "That is not what I meant. Bruce, Dick loves you. It would break him to lose his brother and his dad back to back. " Clark took a breath, as if gathering himself and stepped closer to him. "Bruce, the only reason I'm stopping you from killing Joker is because I know you can't kill someone. Bruce, Jason's death wasn't your fault."

That's what broke the grief out again. Bruce crumpled into himself and hit the floor, sobbing. Didn't Clark understand? It was Bruce's fault that Jason had become Robin. It was Bruce's fault the Joker had targeted him. It was Bruce's fault for not finding out where Jason left to. It was Bruce's fault for not getting to the warehouse in time. It was Bruce's fault for not thinking to call Superman until after everything was ruined. It was all Bruce's fault, couldn't he see it?

Clark was crouched down next to him, hugging him against his chest. Bruce, through sobs, asked "What do I do? It hurts...God is hurts so much. Joker'll just escape again...what if...what if Dick... I can't" and he sobbed into Clark's chest.

Clark was running his hand soothingly on his back, "Why don't you take him. Put him in one of the containment cells in the Bat cave, he won't hurt anyone and then you don't need to...hurt yourself." Bruce latched on to those words like a lifeline. He still needed to find a way to bring himself to justice for his involvement in Jason's death but maybe then he wouldn't hurt Dick too (he had never considered that dying would cause Dick to mourn)

"Bruce," Clark said as he lifted his still crying friend, "I need to take you home so you can get Joker's cell ready. He isn't going to be able to move. No one knows where he is." Bruce nodded, thankful Clark has given him something to do. He knew exactly what cell to use.

It was one of his more brutal inventions, used only once and only for intimidation. If someone tried to hack into it or open the doors with the wrong code, the cell would fill with a poisonous gas. Bruce normally would just use it to threaten someone, would have the antidote on hand. He wouldn't be doing that this time. The cell itself only had one, long lasting light bulb over the toilet and singular faucet. A food slop was deposited through piping that went through three walls and was filtered for any solid objects. Other than the crude appliances and a singular, high definition camera for surveillance, there was nothing in the cell. It was inhumane and Bruce had vowed to only ever use if for a truly non-human beast.

What better fit that description than the Joker? Bruce wasn't going to kill the Joker. He had his line for a reason and was thankful that Clark pulled him back. Dick was going to need him and it would be selfish to leave him alone. He would pay his penance by working even harder to make sure that what Jason stood for, that helping the little guy, wouldn't die with him. But he would also make sure that his baby got what he deserved. He deserved to have his code, that he had gotten on the rough streets of Gotham, followed.

So Bruce would protect his own, his living son and all of goddamn Gotham from the Joker. And he would never forget what that bastard had done to his precious Robin.

Batman didn't kill but Bruce was going to make the Joker wish he was dead.

To anyone who thinks Bruce has a clear and consistent favourite child I raise you this: it is infinitely funnier for Bruce to have a complicated and elaborate “ranking” system of his kids that only he’s privy to.

Picture this: Batman, dosed with truth serum, gets asked as a gag from one of the goons holding him captive who his favourite bat-vigilante is and instead of giving a straight answer, he launches into this whole explanation about the ranking system and who’s in the current lead, who’s hanging behind, etc. At some point (this is a mystery to everyone involved) a whiteboard appears and he starts explaining his system like he’s a football coach before an important match. Out of nowhere he starts pulling out little cardboard cutouts of his kids and pins them to the board. At some point the red string comes out.

Jason hasn’t killed someone in a week? Automatically promoted to favourite. Tim hasn’t caused an international incident in the past month? Puts him a few points ahead that keep decreasing the longer he refuses real sleep (20 minute power naps don’t count Tim! Says powernap inventor Bruce Wayne). Cass gave him a hug this morning and wished him a good day? Favourite until he gets a call from dick telling him (without shouting!!!!) that he’ll be there for this week’s Sunday dinner. Duke accidentally scratches the Batmobile? Demoted to the “in trouble” zone (which, honestly, that’s where his kids spend most of the time in😭). Damian did not attempt to free all the animals in the zoo they visited? Favourite. Until Bruce found out he was just trying to conceal the cat hidden in his room that Bruce explicitly forbade him from keeping.

Dick arrives at the family dinner with a busted shoulder and a bruise the size of Texas on his face? Gets demoted so far down that even azraeil scores higher than him. He’s in the “in trouble” zone for a constant month after that. Oh one of them survived an almost death? Favourite for at least the next week. At least. Multiple people survive an almost death? EVERYONES the favourite. The least favourite is the growing grey hairs on his head.

The end of day results are decided by who bothers to wish him goodnight and if all of them have fucked up in some way the past week then Jon (Kent) becomes the automatic favourite until someone cracks a joke that Bruce actually finds funny.

The favourite child changes daily, hourly even, and his kids are aware this system exists and keep trying to crack the code but he always Knows and just smirks smugly.

I know a bunch of people have already written stuff for this but I was so inspired I couldn't help myself.

<3

It rains a lot in Gotham, especially in the winter months. Water pelts the roof of the manor now, the sky weeping buckets that will fail to wash away the grime and filth of the city. It's supposed to get worse overnight.

It feels disrespectful to do this on a rainy evening.

Danyal hated the rain.

"Damian."

He turns his gaze from the window to meet Father's worried eyes. Richard stands at his side, purposefully loose in his stance; a contrast to the other man's tense posture. A reassuring smile and a serious frown. His brother and Batman, Father hidden somewhere beneath. The cowl sits alone in the Batcave, yet its wearer stands here in the communal space, a towering figure of severity.

Damian scowls. Father insisted to be here for this, yet he has the audacity to meet his youngest son as some character he invented one day instead of the man he is. His lip curls up in disgust. How cowardly.

Father doesn't even have the decency to quail under Damian's stare, instead meeting it head-on with a firm, defiant detachment. Pathetic. If he insists on acting like a child, perhaps they should reschedule. Or, better yet, he could step aside entirely and allow Damian to deal with the matter on his own as he should have done after giving the guidance that was asked of him.

"You good, Little D?" Richard, always the peace-keeper.

"Quite." He bites out. His glare doesn't stray.

As he always does, Father remains stubborn. Unyielding. Infuriating. How dare Father stand there, matching Damian's glare with one of his own, like he has any right to be angry or afraid? Father is not the one who died - who was murdered at only nine. He is not the one who's suffering.

Damian understands grief. He's intimately familiar with it, just as Father is. But Father only lost a son. Danyal lost his life. Danyal is dead.

"Master Bruce, if you would step aside."

Father breaks his stare, eyes darting to land on Pennyworth as he strides into the room towards the coffee table, tray of homemade pastries, and perfectly cut fruit in hand. Father shuffles out of the way immediately, respectful in a way he hasn't tried to be with Damian. The tray is put down without even a tink as glass meets polished wood, yet Father's stubborn-set shoulders still jump just a fraction like a gunshot went off.

Damian sneers.

Father clearly knows he's in the wrong—why else would he be so on edge around Pennyworth? It's almost laughable that it took the intervention of his father to soften the stern, professional crease in his brow. At least Pennyworth shares Damian's displeasure. Richard does as well, obviously, but he's otherwise engaged hovering in this uncertain sort of way like he's torn over what to do about it, no doubt a result of the heated argument he and Father had last night.

"Excuse me while I fetch the water." Pennyworth glances meaningfully at Father. "Do behave while I'm off." And then he's gliding right back out.

A child would grin smugly at the show of support. Damian isn't a child, so he does no such thing, but he does grip the post-it notes in his hand a little tighter.

Cold hands press the stack of paper into his own, the touch lingering as it drinks in the warmth of Damian's living flesh. It's as greedy as it is needy, like this brief moment of contact is all it takes to remind his dead heart how to beat again. Damian, as he always does, indulges it, because it gives him just as much life as it does Danyal.

"These are summoning sigils." His brother says, voice accentuated by a ghostly echo that's long since grown familiar. "I drew them myself so they're a bit rudimentary, but they should work."

He pulls away, taking with him a post-it note off the pile and his touch. Damian feels colder without it.

"Just think of me, rip it down the middle," He demonstrates, the torn halves catching fire the moment they part, the flames a brilliant, Lazarus green, that spreads up his hands and swallows him whole in a fraction of a moment, "and I'll appear." He smiles, popping back into sight a few inches closer in a burst of heatless green.

Damian blinks, and crosses his arms, disapproving. "You were on fire."

Danyal grins wider. "Cool, right? Don't worry, it doesn't hurt. It doesn't really feel like anything except emotion and magic."

"Emotion and magic." He repeats, voice flat.

"Yep. It's a bit fun, really. Like teleporting! I hardly ever get to teleport. CW prefers portals." He adds with a roll of his eyes.

Damian glares, unconvinced. "Is it safe?"

"Of course it is! Look, Dami, it's really weak magic. I could refuse a summons easily, anytime. And it's not like I'll stop visiting. This is just a way for you to call me over. I promise, it's harmless."

"TT. Fine. But if it ever causes you the slightest discomfort inform me and we will find some other method for me to use to get in contact with you."

"Deal!"

Richard may be emotionally compromised, but he'd still jump to Damian's defence over Father's without hesitation, and Pennyworth has clearly allied himself with them as well. All it would take is for Damian to say he's changed his mind, that today is not in fact the optimal day for this, and they would agree without thought. Stand firm at his side in the face of Father's assured disapproval.

The certainty that he would be listened to strangely enough keeps the words from forming. It's raining. He reminds himself. That's more than enough reason to put this off. But Damian Wayne doesn't 'put things off', and he is not going to start now, no matter how much Father continues to test his patience.

Footsteps draw his attention back to the doorway. It seems Drake has seen it fit to finally arrive with Gordon. Not late, likely thanks to Gordon's influence. With a twist of the knob the door swings soundlessly open, revealing the pair on the other side.

"Sorry we took so long." Gordon greets. "Someone fell asleep at his desk."

"I was resting my eyes!" Drake counters.

"For two hours?"

Drake grumbles something into his coffee cup that Damian doesn't bother to listen to as he walks deeper into the room towards Richard. Gordon situates herself instead to Father's right, closest to the entryway and beside the sofa. A tactical choice, seeing as it leaves Father trapped between her and Drake, both of whom have never been shy about putting him in his place.

As if on cue, Pennyworth returns and shuts the door silently behind him, another tray in hand. This one carries a pitcher, a stack of glasses and two plain mugs, one entirely an emerald green and the other a Nightwing blue. An earthy fragrance fills the room, rich with spices, the distinct aroma of cardamom and black tea.

Karak chai.

Two mugs, identical in all but colour. Pennyworth sets the drinks down without fanfare, placing the mugs close to Damian. Pennyworth made karak chai for him. For him and Danyal, undeniably with the recipe Damian had entrusted to him all those years ago when he'd been craving home in the cold unfamiliarity of the manor.

Pennyworth does not speak nor look his way as he straightens back up.

"Thank you." Damian says anyway.

"You're welcome, young master." He nods easily, a pleased smile on his lips as he turns to stand on the fringes of the group.

His family is staring, he knows. Damian can feel Richard's sad eyes as they pin him with empathy and sorrow. He doesn't need the comfort. Damian is not sad. He is emotional, perhaps, but not sad. This is a pleasant emotional, like nostalgia and the surety he is cared for wrapped tight around his heart.

He clears his throat, and this time when he speaks his voice comes out strong and sure. "Now that everyone is present, we should begin."

Richard is a tense bundle of concern in his peripheral vision. "We don't have to if you don't feel up to it- "

"I feel fine." Damian interrupts, tilting his head so he can look his brother in the eyes down the bridge of his nose for good measure.

"Okay." It's a quick acquiescence. A show of trust.

"If there are no other matters to discuss- "

"Wait, are we supposed to sit or stand? Did we ever decide on that?"

Damian respectfully ignores Drake. "- then I shall begin."

The topmost post-it note peels off the pile smoothly. The paper is a toxic green, not quite the shade of the Lazarus pits or Danyal's eyes in death. A circle of runes etched in black pen covers most of the page, leaving only the corners free of marking. The script makes no sense to him, and even now, after numerous days of research, the language eludes him.

Danyal gave him a stack of thirty summoning sigils. After today, Damian will only have eleven left. If all goes well, he will never use those last eleven. The thought doesn't fit quite right in his mind, no matter how much he rolls and flips it.

Do this so Danyal can rest. He tells himself. For Danyal.

He grips opposite sides of the paper with both his hands, poised to tear it in two. He thinks of blue eyes so much like Father's. He thinks of private, hidden smiles and hugs shared under the dark of night. Of afternoons spent sparring, speaking without words as their swords clashed ruthlessly under their instructors' judging eyes. Of hands identical to his own.

Danyal.

He pictures stark white hair and a voice insisting it's more than white. "It's the colour of the stars, Dami. How can't you see it?" He imagines freckles dotting out constellations on unnaturally pale skin that had only ever known kisses of pain that left winding, twisted streaks of puffed pink. Damian draws Danyal with his memories in crisp lines that outline fangs and claws and a smile so happy it hurt.

I miss you, akhi.

He rips the post-it note in two. It wastes no time igniting in Lazarus flames. They grow quickly, tickling his fingers with wisps of power. He drops them only when the fire has almost entirely enveloped the paper that sparked it.

Danyal, won't you come see me?

The paper floats gently down, swaying to the whims of the flames. It has drifted down to be level with Damian's waist when it happens. He's already averted his eyes when the sigil explodes with light, flames large enough to brush the ceiling dancing out in a spectacular, blinding display.

The smile that his lips are drawn to in response is both entirely involuntary and decidedly soft, even as Drake's startled curses reach his ears past the roar of the fire. He steadies his stance as the light dies down, planting his feet into the carpet and bracing his legs.

In a swirl of magic the blaze vanishes.

"Ahki!"

A blur of black, white and green crashes into him with a strength that belies the lean frame that makes itself at home in his arms, burrowing fluffy hair into his neck. His body reacts instinctively to the sudden embrace, pulling his twin close as cold fingers grip at the back of his shirt, clinging to the fabric as tightly as the razor-sharp points of his nails allow.

Damian huffs as he rests his head on Danyal's shoulder. "Is it necessary to do this every time?"

"Definitely!" Comes the chipper reply, voice a giggling lilt in his ear.

"TT. I take it you've been well?"

Danyal pulls away, so jittery his freckles flash glitter-bright. Damian tries not to let his gaze linger on the starburst of Lichtenburg figures that crawl up his brother's face, slashing through his otherwise unmarred eye in jagged, faintly green scars. A marker of his second death. A second death so far from Damian he hadn't known of it until his twin appeared in his room one quiet night.

"When am I not? I'm the picture of wellness!" He grins, lips stretching just a margin too far.

Damian raises a brow.

Danyal doesn't wilt, floating back so they are no longer pressed up against one another. "Someone's grouchy." He teases with a mock pout. Always so childish. "Does the super-secret mission that you couldn't tell me about have anything to do with it?"

Super-secret mission. Damian's excuse, put less crudely of course, for requesting a period of no-contact to prepare for today. Close to two weeks of not seeing one another whatsoever after months of meeting up consistently at least biweekly.

"I don't believe I called it a 'super-secret mission'." Damian pointed out.

"Mm, no, I'm pretty sure you did."

Richard chooses that moment to succumb to the urge to sneeze.

Danyal reacts instantly. Damian gets a brief glimpse of his features stretching, pointed ears, fangs and claws growing substantially, skin turning any icy blue, as the ghost snaps around, placing himself more firmly between Damian and his family with a growl so deep it rattles in his bones. His spine looks as though it's been yanked up, standing pointed and crooked, around the abyss of light that Danyal has become.

Damian knows just what his siblings, Father and Alfred must be seeing. A dark, impossibly dark, almost pitch black void of a face, floating teeth and eyes, far too many of both, floating in the darkness, static buzzing nauseatingly at the corners of every visible feature. His Lichtenberg scar will have lit up, in contrast, a sharp green cut through a warped, mangled body, twisted in ways it shouldn't and far too long in all the wrong places.

"A monster from hell." Danyal had called himself once, ashamed and frustrated, eyes averted like he feared to see the agreement he expected.

Damian, though, had far from agreed. "A guardian." He'd said, calm in the face of Danyal's surprise. "Hurt and frightened, perhaps even angry. But kind. I cannot imagine any monster so flawed. A guardian, though, is hardly anything else. You paint a strong figure, akhi. Do not let unfounded shame confuse you."

So when he raises a hand and rests it on his brother's shoulder, frozen cold under thinly pulled skin, he does so without hesitation nor disgust.

"Akhi, they are trusted people. I give you my word. We're safe."

A glance to Father proves perhaps they're not. There's horror in his eyes. Traces of grief and regret and loss, but horror, blatant in his expression. Damian sneers. How uncouth. This is his son. His youngest child. He should know better than to behave so poorly, regardless of how shocked he may be.

The others, at least, look largely surprised. Pennyworth seems hardly phased, of course, and Drake's gaze is far too calculating for Damian's taste but it is not unacceptably so. Richard, the emotional buffoon, is obviously twisted up, features pulled down in, well, the closest term Damian can think of is heartbreak. Thank the Ancients, as Danyal would say, that Gordon is sensible enough to be visibly unmoved.

"Tt. Ignore Father. He is being foolish."

As though reminded of himself, Father pulls back into a carefully blank, but open expression. An obvious mask, but an improvement nonetheless.

Danyal turns slightly, and Damian can see, just barely, his eyes blink slowly. "Father?"

"Yes."

Danyal is still for a moment, and then suddenly he's shrunken down to normal; the right amount of eyes, dulled points and his natural height. He doesn't turn around fully, though, keeping everyone in his sights with sculpted ease. 

"Oops."

Damian raises a brow, pinning his akhi under his judging stare.

"They surprised me! You should have told me I'd be meeting the family! This isn't fair." Danyal whined.

He frowned. Of course Danyal would be uncomfortable; he'd never shown any interest in meeting Father or any of his adopted children. It was cruel of him not to warn him, but he couldn't risk Danyal refusing to attend. This is simply too important.

"I apologise." He ignores the wide eyes at the easy apology, most of all from Drake.

Danyal forgives easily, as he has always has. Not without fanfare, of course. "Ugh, you're lucky I love you so much." He accuses with a point of his finger, expression comically serious.

"Tt." An agreement without words.

His brother nods with humph, and whirls around to face the family he's yet to meet, back to Damian. A show of trust, even after a clear betrayal. Trust had killed Danyal, yet he still had so much to give. The thought made Damian's heart inexplicably ache.

"Okay!" Danyal started, a little too peppy to be genuine. "Sorry about before. Didn't mean to spook you."

Damian chooses not to acknowledge the wordplay.

"I'm Danyal Al Ghul. Or Daniel Fenton, I guess, but call me Danny." He smiles. Without the accompanying glow Damian has grown accustomed to it doesn't look quite right.

Father steps forward, acting the part of gentle parent. A disingenuous play rooted in truth. He supposes it's the best Father can do. Danyal does not move to close the distance, nor widen it. He just eyes him critically in a way Damian easily recognises as apprehensive.

"I am Bruce Wayne. I'm your biological father."

"I know." Danyal makes a show of looking him up and down. "I thought you'd be taller."

Father freezes, as though struck. For a brief moment, his eyes clearly glaze over as though brimming with tears, while his mouth twitches like it's not sure whether to frown or burst into hysterical laughter. And then he melts back into a marginally wider smile than before, expression almost nostalgic. A sort of sad joy.

"I get that a lot." Father replies.

"And I'm Dick!" Richard pipes up with a delighted grin. "Damian's favourite adopted-brother!"

Danyal whirls part way around to face Damian. "I thought Jason was your favourite?" He says with faux innocence.

Richard gasps, apparently betrayed by his "own flesh and blood". An incorrect statement, seeing as neither Damian nor Jason are related to Richard biologically. As he often does with the former acrobat's dramatics, Damian doesn't acknowledge the ridiculous display.

"Tt. I do not have favourites."

"Everyone has favourites!" Danyal cuts back. "Like, you're my favourite twin!"

"I am your only twin. There is no competition."

"Exactly!"

"Following that logic, would I not be your least favourite twin as well?"

Danyal brushes off the very sound rebuttal with a shrug. "Semantics."

Richard chooses this moment to let loose a high-pitched squeal, without even the decency of looking ashamed when Danyal is immediately distracted by it. "You're so cute together! It's like double the Damian!"

Danyal shifts back a little, farther from Richard. It's such a slight movement, if he weren't in a house full of detectives no one would have noticed. But to their trained eyes, his discomfort rings clear from that miniscule action.

Most of all to Damian, who is absolutely furious at Richard's choice of words.

How dare he.

"Damian. Spare."

"Stop! What was that? How can someone so incompetent have shared the same womb as our heir? Damian, come here. Demonstrate for that one."

"Lesser Damian, what do you think you're doing? You don't get to drink water until you do this right. Again!"

"You could do to be more like Damian."

"Better! Do more of that and people will start mistaking you for Damian."

"Danyal is his own person." He snaps. "He is not a copy of myself."

Richard, to his credit, realises he has mis-stepped immediately, if the way his expression falls is anything to go by. "Of course he's his own person. I wasn't trying to say he isn't! I'm sorry it came off like that."

It's a dissatisfying apology. A floundering for words and a panic to undo harm. It's not enough. Not for Damian. Not for Danyal, even if he is to argue otherwise.

It's an irrational anger, Damian realises. Richard truly had no idea they would react badly to a passing comment. Yet here he stands, furious to the point of missing his sword.

Tension mounts and is promptly broken by Gordon, who hardly lets Richard finish his sentence before she cuts in.

"I'm Barbara." She smiles, all approachability and unparalleled calm. "Everyone calls be Babs, though."

Danyal smiles back, tense muscles loosening as the topic shifts. "Hi."

Her smile loosens, becoming gentler in response. "The one with the massive eyebags is Tim," an undignified squawk punctuates her statement, "and that," she nods her head towards Pennyworth, "is Alfred. He's the one in charge."

"I know. I've been dying to meet you. All of you. Damian's told me so much about you." And there's the glow, white-green and joyful. Damian relaxes fully at the sight of it. It's not as bright as usual, but it's there, and it brings him immeasurable relief.

"All good things?" She teases.

"If by ‘all good,’ you mean a couple of lucky breaks mixed into a chaotic storm, then sure.” He teases, grin playful.

She grins. “So, what I’m hearing is… there were some good things?”

"Maybe if you squint." There's a pause, in which Danny rocks back and forth in the air as though rolling on the balls of his feet, considering. "So this is nice and all, but why am I here? What's the special occasion I couldn't know about in advance?"

Damian tenses up all over again, a familiar knot tightening in his stomach. Here it is, the moment he has been dreading, the one he had hoped, with a small but significant part of himself, would never arrive.

Their precious time together is rapidly drawing to a close, because Danyal asked, and someone will answer, and then they'll have to start. Someone will inevitably respond, and soon he will find himself at rest, left with the haunting silence where their conversations once flourished. No more secret meetings in the sanctuary of his room or the serene solitude of the library—just an empty space filled with what could have been.

(How many years until they'll meet again? How long will Damian have to wait to see his brother? How long will he live?)

(But this is what's best for Danyal, so the answers to those questions don't matter.)

"It's personal shit, mate. The sort of ghost your kid is won't like being seen by strangers. Poor bloke might even Fade right then and there if he sees me lurkin' about." Constantine says, taking another puff of his cigarette.

"Fade?"

"Die, Batsy. Like, proper die for them dead fellas."

"So I should not be present." Father says.

"You're family, ain't ya'? He'll be able to tell. Listen, them young'uns can be fragile, but they're still dead, mate. The dead know a lot more than the living do."

Father doesn't look assured. "How is Fading different from being put to rest?"

"Blimey, do I have to spell it out for you? Fading's dying. Rest is rest. The kid'll go back to whatever afterlife he's been in and stop tryna' take your boy with 'im. Be able to wait for him to come round the natural way. Or natural as it gets with you lot." He shrugs.

Father acquiesces. "What do we need to do?"

"Always so serious. Listen, it's simple as shit magic. Even the kid over there could do it."

Damian sneers. "I am no 'kid'."

"Sure ya' ain't. The runes can be drawn in anything. Chalk, blood, whatever tickles your fancy. They just gotta be big enough he can stand in the middle without touching any of the lines." He hands over folded piece of paper, presumably containing a sketch of the runes in question. "They'll just make him more agreeable. Sometimes the young ones panic and you don't want the fella to hurt himself."

"This can cause him harm?" Damian interrupts, stepping closer to the magician with a scowl.

Constantine scoffs. "Course not. What do you take me for? I wouldn't give it to ya' if it would. I don't go around hurting kids, mate, not even the dead ones."

Damian's scowl deepens, untrusting.

"C'mon mate. As much as I like your company I got things to do. Places to be. Demons to scam. You know how it is. So what's it gonna' be? "

"Your help is appreciated." Father steps to be in line with Damian, resting a hand on his shoulder. A leash disguised as affection. Damian seethes under it. "What else do we need to do?"

"What?" Danyal asks, wary. "Has someone died?" His grin is shaky, his glow dimmed to nothing.

Father steps forward. Danny floats back a little, basically pressed up against Damian. Father stops. "Danyal -"

"Danny." The halfa corrects. "Only Damian and Mother call me Danyal."

Father nods. "Danny, Damian has told us about your situation."

Danyal raises a brow, both confused and annoyed. "My situation?"

"We only want to help."

"Okay." He draws out the 'ay', suspicious. "Help how?"

Richard takes over then. "Send you home. So you can rest." His eyes are gentle and sad, his body language open.

"We spoke with a trusted magician." Damian pipes up, surprising himself and Danyal. "You won't feel any pain. I assumed you would like not to be alone, hence the company."

"I'm never alone if I have you." Danyal implores, turning earnest, green eyes to him. Eyes that used to be blue, years ago.

"I'll be there." Damian promises, because how could he not. "Just not yet Danyal."

"I don't understand."

"We're putting you to rest," Drake interjects. "Sending you back to the afterlife where you belong."

"Tim!" Gordon hisses.

Under typical circumstances, Damian would shoot Drake a sharp glare for his crassness, especially towards Danyal when emotions are already running rampant. However, these are far from normal circumstances and right now, he couldn't care less about crassness of all things.

Because he has a clear view of Danyal's face, and the only way he can describe his expression is devastated. His bright, Lazarus eyes have turned a murky green, the light sucked out of them and replaced with brimming tears, his already ashen skin turning an even paler grey-blue. He's not glowing at all, not even slightly, and he's always glowing. Like this, he looks like an actual corpse, and the image makes him nauseous.

"You want me to go? I thought you- you said you missed me. Why are you trying to send me away?" The tremor in his voice hits Damian like a bullet. He'd never heard his akhi sound like this before. Not since the day he died.

Damian grabs him, pulling him into a tight but brief hug. "I have missed you. I always miss you when we are apart." He draws back, still holding onto Danyal as he meets those dull eyes with his own. "I just want what's best for you. I do not wish you to be in pain. Everything I do, I do for you."

"You want to send me away!" Danyal cries, and it's then that Damian looks away from his expression and realises his brother is shrinking. "I don't want to go. Why won't you just come with me instead?"

Danyal is clinging to him now, shaking fingers digging into him as tightly as they can. Likes this, Damian can feel him grow smaller as well, having to look increasingly further down as Danyal's features grow more youthful.

"Please don't make me go. I'll visit less, I won't bother you so often, just please, let me see you. Please, akhi." Tears begin to fall, streaking pale skin with twin rivers.

"Danny, this will be good for you, I promise. We're not trying to hurt you." Father beseeched, uncharacteristically pleading.

"Shut up!" Danyal snaps around, baring fangs in a warning growl. "This is your fault. Damian would never choose to send me away. Right Dami?"

How could he possibly disagree? Danyal is so young now, a perfect picture of the body that Mother carefully laid into the Lazarus Pit. A perfect picture of the corpse Damian made of his brother so long ago. Perhaps he should be grateful the de-aging has stopped where it has.

"Right."

Something in Danyal's expression cracks. "Please don't make me go. Please don't send me away." He begs, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

"Anything for you." Damian says, the response coming easily. "You do not have to go anywhere you do not want to. I want nothing more than for you to be by my side forever as well."

"Damian- "

"Really?" Danyal asks, his voice so fragile.

"Tt. Do you take me for a liar?"

His brother sniffs, still crying profusely. "No."

"Good."

Damian lifts his gaze, already preparing to argue that they should delay this ritual a little longer. But the words die in his throat as he catches sight of Richard’s eyes—wide and filled with panic. Something is wrong. He shifts his focus, and for the first time, notices the runes etched in pencil on the ground are  glowing, radiating a brilliant white light.

Father stands at the edge of the glow, his expression unreadable, lips moving quickly in an ancient Latin chant, each syllable sharp and firm. The sound carries an eerie weight, resonating with a power that prickles Damian’s skin. Nearby, Gordon, Drake, and Alfred are all trying, desperately, to pull him back—to break the spell. But Father isn’t listening. He’s completely entranced, lost in the cadence of his own voice.

Chanting. Over and over again, the Latin words spill from his mouth, growing faster and fiercer, as if compelled by some unseen force. The room feels charged, and the air itself seems to hum with energy. Damian’s stomach twists, dread building in his chest. He knows this isn’t right—whatever they’re doing, they’ve already gone too far.

"If ya' ghost is being, let's say, uncooperative, you can put him to rest forcefully. Don't recommend it, though. It really freaks the little bugga's out. Not gonna' hurt him or nothin', mind you, but it's hard to cast a spell when ya' got some kid bawling his eyes out. All the ghost feelings might attract some blobs too, but they're harmless bottom feeders so they shouldn't cause ya' much trouble."

If Father is going to lay Danyal to rest against his wishes, then he can lose two sons. Damian has lived more than enough. He should have died the day he murdered his brother. If he's going with Danyal, well, Damian could not ask for a better end. 

"Danyal." Big, wet eyes find his. "I'm ready to go home with you."

Danyal immediately latches on, and everything goes green.

Dcxdp

Just thinking of like a demon twins au where danny finds out damian is no longer under their grandfathers rule and goes to visit him in ghost form.

And damian is grieving all over again. Because thats his little brother, dead at his hands. Never able to grow up and live a full life. Just this weird mirror version of it. And now that damians embraced his fathers way of preserving life it feels even more of a waste and he mourns the experiences they could've had together. It felt like less of a blow when he was still in the league and surviving wasnt much of a life. Danyal was most likely happier at rest then there, but now? Now damian wishes they had more time.

Danny not realizing hes forgotten to tell his brother hes actually still alive. keeps saying that damian should come with him. See his home, meet his friends, Etc. Damian thinking danyal wants to drag him to the afterlife. Considers it even, because he owes him that much. Scared by his own thoughts and telling bruce or dick about it. And theyre both grief stricken and furious. Just this whole misunderstanding snowballing. Another son but one whos been lost before they could ever meet. One theyd never been able to know. Who never got the chance to be a child before his time was cut short. And everyone wanting to find a way to lay danny to rest without him stealing damian away too. Bruce desperate to meet this imprint of a son he never met but terrified of it taking away the son he still has.

Lol thinking of like 100 ways this could go.

Bruce calling in constantine. Danny feeling betrayed that they called someone to banish him? He thought damian would be happy to see him? Would accept him. Thought he could meet his father as well.

Or

Damian making him a grave and showing him that he can "rest" now like hed never been properly laid to rest with the league. Danny thinking its either a) a funny joke or b) finally realizes whats going on.

Or

damian offering to go with him as long as hes able to come back? He still wants to live his life and there are others in dcu who can go between realms (sorta i guess?) Danny being like yeah? No duh we'll come back xD damian being like??? When he sees amity lol.

Thug: *holds a crowbar*

Jason:

Thug:

Jason:

Thug:

*Bruce coming out of no where behind the thug holding his shoulder harshly*

Bruce: Not now. Not ever...

Jason: Alright kid. I’m calling in a favor you owe me.

Damian: Fine. What do you need?

The rest of the Batfam:

Tim: That’s IT?

Jason: What?

Tim: Not even a single protest?

Damian: There is no need to make a big deal of this.

Tim: Last week when I asked for help you laughed for fifteen minutes straight!

Damian, shrugging: I owe Jason some favors.

Dick, suspiciously: How many favors are we talking about here?

Jason, grinning slightly ferally: Enough.

Steph, impressed: How?

Damian, scowling: None of your concern, Stephanie.

Duke: What’s the big deal? I thought everyone owed everyone else favors at this point.

Bruce: *sighs and puts some batheadphones on*

Steph: Not Damian.

Tim: Damian owes no one anything, ever.

Damian: Just because I don’t make a habit of incompetence…

Dick: Jason, seriously, how come Dami owes you a bunch of favors?

One week ago

Damian: Did you get it?

Jason, pulling a small kitten from his jacket: Here you go.

Three weeks ago

Talia, on the phone: Boys.

Damian: Mother.

Jason: Hey mom, guess what? I broke into the CIA again.

Talia:

Talia: I know what you’re doing, Jason.

Jason: Oh, and if Luthor calls you it’s totally not my fault that his laser prototype thing went missing.

Talia:

Jason: I mean, I suppose it sort of is, since I’m the one who stole it and all, but-

Talia: Enough.

Talia: Damian, I apologize for being upset over the giraffes. Please continue doing your best to convince your brother to stay out of trouble, darling.

Damian: Of course, Mother.

Two months ago

Damian: I need you to hide these.

Jason: Look, we both know I have skills, but how am I supposed to hide a whole ass elephant?

Damian: Please?

Jason: You know, your puppy dog eyes were a lot more effective when you were six.

Damian:

Jason: Fine.

Five months ago

Jason: I hope you have a good explanation for this, brat.

Damian: I don’t see what the big deal is. I just asked you to pick me up.

Jason: In a JET. From FINLAND!