Azalia

"'Cause I'm a punk rocker, yes, I am."

[dwadspider1]

Signal

Pennyworth said a bat always knew his way home.

Grayson said that no matter what, father would come back.

Drake said not even dead, he would never leave them behind.

The truth is, Damian doesn't want to look preoccupied even if the days on his calendar had already count eight days down. He had kept his chin high and shoulders, just going out to patrol with the others when Gotham was still waiting for Batman to come.

Time blurs when your occupied, not a single idea to where he had gone despite Grayson being the last who spoke to him. Only that he was following a lead, what lead? What could possibly be so important to dissappear in God's greenest earth without a single word?!

His father must be loosing a few screws over his head, leaving without a word even to Alfred.

Damian holds back a grunt, his boot kicks a rock on the rooftop he's standing on. Arms tight against his chest, cold bitting down his skin despite his suit. His fingers trembled. A lot.

So unlike of him, he had endured much more than a simple snow storm, he doesn't tremble. Someone like him a Wayne, an Al Ghul shouldn't show such lowly sign of vulnerability... and still.

A couple of voices makes him distracted, his vigilante instincts are first despite Red Robin saying he had to stay put. He is Robin, he is not staying put in any way!

His eyes catch it first, the bat signal on fire, the flames dance over the night as if it extinguish the last remaining of Batman, the smell of plastic and something metallic reaches his nose before he can even hear what they are saying. The symbol of his father, what he fights for, the hope of this city.

"What should we do with it?" The officer asks the stupidest question he has ever heard in the last weeks.

The answer is immediate.

"Get a new one" he declares, pushing his way through them, his brows furrow in a scowl at the simple idea of not having the signal lighting uo Gotham's gloomy sky. "Now, I said now!" He raises his voice, trying to not crumble.

If they don't, how would father know he's still need it?

They need it. Gotham need it. He needs it.

The anger washes away, only leaving the uncertainty that only being the son of Batman can leave. Because, what if father's dead?

"Now, please", he says again looking at Gordon behind his domino mask.

Is unsure if the man takes pitty in his deplorable whine, but Damian feels a warmth arm around his smaller shoulders. His surroundings dissappear for a flicker moment and his mind can only thing how that good that feels. Surprisingly so. A lump stays rotted on his throat at the compassion but he refuses himself to cry.

He just hopes father can find his way home one more time.

This is completely based off on this specific panel from the Court of Owls Saga (Part 2) 😭

He's my Shayla.

[dwadspider1]

Habits

The first time he lost a child, it felt as if a part of his already damaged and shattered heart, the one that had already lost one of the greatest loves of his life, had been ripped out, leaving him to bleed out with guilt and regret. Dick hadn't even died; he was there, building his future while he watched from afar. Bruce was so proud of his eldest son, of how far his accomplishments have guided him and they've made it grow better than Bruce ever could, but those words never left his lips during the fight that had created a gaping chasm in their bond.

Soon, the unconscious habits were more noticeable, like walking into the kitchen and calling out, "Good morning, champ," hoping for the grumpy acknowledgement a teenager. But there was no one to answer back, no one to insist on training with him, much less discuss a new case. For the first time in decades, the mansion felt empty as he walks through its halls, haunting every corner of it with the ghost of a laugh, a toothless smile or a rebel boy hanging from the chandelier.

The second time he lost a son, what remained of that bleeding heart turned to ashes, stopping its beat like Jason in the rubble where he had died. Not a single tear was shed, not on the night of his death, nor at his funeral, even when Dick cried out and berated him for not being there. It's losing everything all over again, the little life he had built with the boy it had been forged in sand that slipped between his fingers.

But the morning he entered the room, a month after his departure, Bruce didn't know why he'd been led there; he simply opened the door and said as if Jason was still alive, "Buddy, do you want to read by the fireplace with me...?" He stopped in his tracks, and his heart, now gone, tightened in his chest, and he wept until his parched eyes could bear no more.

Everything seemed to haunt his days and nights, like old ghosts clinging to his back with the routine that was once his life. The extra plate at the table he always asked Alfred for and it was never denied, despite the sorrow in the butler's expression; the chair beside him in the cave, taller than his, enough so that the little feet don't touch the ground; the tools and gadgets too small for his hands that still awaited their owners to join him on patrol.

Habits that he will forever carry.

[dwadspider1]

Odd

Damian knows he has a weird older brother. It is obvious for the eye for every other member of the League though everyone else is far too afraid to even make a comment.

Mother says to take it easy on him, that he needs time to recover, that his mind is a mess sometimes and the whines and scream are just part of the process.

He is a child, yes, but there's not a simple stupid hair in his head, thank you. There's more beyond that just he can't put a finger in what is exactly wrong.

Sometimes he would find him on the floor beside his bed, like a guard dog keeping his human safe. Sometimes he would find him staring into his soul with those unnerving green eyes that many would be afraid of, except Damian. Sometimes he would just listen to his breath, when he lays on top of him like the baby he once was and calms himself with the steady heartbeat.

Is annoying, he wants to think as grandfather once said about his older brother being so unstable. He doesn't like when grandfather calls him that.

Because Damian doesn't mind the quietness, nor the loudness that comes with the nightmares.

He might act annoyed but when his older brother is just looking for a pillar to support his crumbling world, Damian will be more than happy to provide that. Even if his words says otherwise.

So, perhaps the oddness of one is the comfort of the other. Because Damian can't find himself in a world where Jason is not his brother.

[dwadspider1]

Yellow Flowers

"What’s that for?" Batman asks, even with the cowl over his face, the frown was obvious beneath the mask.

"Flowers," he answers, the smile hasn't washed away, just patiently holding out the bucket of yellow flowers for the older man. "They're for you."

Bruce just stares at Clark as if he had grown a second head, and perhaps he had because there's no logical explanation his brain can come up with at the sudden gift in the middle of a unplanned patrol, was this why the kryptonian had appeared out of nowhere in the gloomy city? So, he has no other options to ask:

"Why?"

"Uh, well—. I've seen people doing this," there's a hint of nervousness that he can't quite mask, "apparently this symbolizes the begin of spring in some countries—"

"Superman, we're starting autumn."

Well, that really killed it. The declaration makes something inside of Clark feel more sheepish at the hole giving flowers thing.

"Well, yeah, I know that! I just... thought that," He starts to retrieve the bucket, his words not making sense with one and other, but the hand on his wrist makes him stop.

His blue wide eyes look back at Batman, the man hasn't changed his expression yet there's something in it that truly feels different.

"I never said I didn't want them," it's the only answer Bruce's lips can come up with, as his gloved fingers take the flowers. Even for a few seconds, both hands touch each other. And Clark...

He feels nothing more than an enamored farm boy, that can only smile. A smile so bright, Bruce swears he can light up all of Gotham with it.

[dwadspider1]

Golden Birthday

The night crawls into the cold halls of the manor, empty long spaces lacking any sort of life that if it wasn't for how clean and neat every place was, anyone could have guessed it was abandoned.

The grandfather clock ticks loudly in the living room, giving the undeniable hour. 12:00 AM.

The date? August 16th.

Alfred stares at it with his eyebrows furrowed, carried with grief that had never fully washed away with the long days throughout the torturous months. Today is a soldier's birthday, Jason's birthday.

A long tired sigh escapes from his lips before giving a last glance to the clock. The tray with tea and biscuits feels heavier in his hands as he walks down to the only place he knows he will find Bruce, in his solitude, mourning for his son. The man had fought Alfred to go out on patrol, and the older one knew this was just Bruce's way to cope with all the overwhelming feelings he had been experiencing lately, throwing himself to the thrill of danger, the long and exhausting hours of patrol beating the shit out of every criminal he encountered.

It is not healthy, none of it yet he had indulged Bruce's actions, if that's what he needed, then shall be it.

The eerie silence of the cave greets him once more, carefully, with the same calculated moves he is characterized for when he puts the tray down. His eyes land on the man's figure.

Jason's memorial stands tall in front of him, his gloved hands touching with his fingertips the glass waiting any moment for it to break under his touch, just like he did with the young bird under his wing. His shoulders are tense and high, body ready to fight in action like expecting the first blow. And yet, his face is uncovered despite the batsuit fit, his eyes full of a deep sadness and regret like a pool he had decided he would die in.

Batman's greatest loss, reflected in a father's grief.

"Master Bruce," Alfred finally calls, carefully to not startle the man. "It's late, I suggest you take off your suit and get ready to bed."

He only is met with silence after his declaration. Bruce never tears his gaze from the glass in front of him, that is supposed to honor the role the boy had on his crusade.

"Today would have been his golden birthday," his words are a whisper that makes Alfred old ears pause.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Today, he would have been sixteen. His golden birthday."

Oh. Oh. The golden birthday.

There is a still picture in his mind of the young lad, pulling Bruce’s cape with such insistence that it was almost comical, considering how much energy he had even after a patrol. Bruce was not having it while he worked on his report. He looked at the boy with deadpan eyes and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Jason?” Bruce said, defeated by the fact that Jason would not let him work any further.

“Can- can we get golden decorations for my birthday?” He finally asked with one of the biggest smiles Alfred had ever seen on his face.

Bruce paused, a little taken back by the request, “there are still a few months to go until your birthday, chum.”

“I know!” The young Robin threw his hands to the air, “but it’s special, it’s my golden birthday!”

The way he said it made the butler chuckle softly to himself. His enthusiasm was contagious to anyone who witnessed the scene.

“Golden birthday?” He asked, sweeping his eyes to Alfred with a puzzled look. But the butler just shrugged with a knowing smile.

For the next hour, Jason rambled like there was no tomorrow about his ideas on the celebration; his eyes lit up brighter than any star in the sky, and he had a smile that could lift anyone's spirits. Bruce had ended up agreeing to almost everything, even sending Dick an invitation despite being unsure whether the young would show up just to make him happy.

And now, his eyes look back at Bruce, lost in the sadness and grief that have driven him further and further into a well from which he cannot escape.

“Happy birthday, chum.” He still can hear the whisper that is slowly consumed by the Batcave's silence.

In light of the story's inevitable ending, the wish, from that young soul, felt hollow. Perpetually frozen in time with a fifteen-year-old body. Such a young, bright mind, lost in the darkness of Gotham city.

[dwadspider1]

Sleepless night

The bedroom is dark when he slips through the window, the soft light of the moon is the only thing that illuminates the place where he sleeps in. One foot, then the other, the wood creeking under his weight breaks the eerie silence that had settled.

Dick moves through the place only by habit, gear off, esgrima sticks tuck safely in one of the room's drawers, sweatpants and an old shirt with the faded symbol of Superman across his chest. Each action lacks life, seeming more like a mechanical and linear form with which he has learned to survive these past months.

Hall feels longer every time he walks through it, mocking him with smiling pictures. The living room is lonely with the piles of files he had been working on to keep his mind occupied, he doesn't get to look much before he moves back again.

The bright light of the kitchen blinds him for a few seconds when he switches the light on, his exhausted expression being more noticeable. The e small space has become a bad habit to keep dirty with the stack of forgotten plates, and plastic bags of junk food. Not something he plans to deal with tonight, but he should do something about that.

Instead, the sigh comes through his nose and his fingers are already opening the cupboard where he keeps all the cereals. He picks randomly, that's what he likes to think but he always ends up reaching for the same one he used to eat and loved to tell Dick about.

The bowl is settled, even without a clean spoon to eat, he pours whatever milk has left along with the cereal.

"Can I have some too?"

He bristles uncomfortably, heart rate reaching its peak. Not day, please. Dick doesn't stop, but doesn't look back either, knowing all too well where the voice is coming, who is it coming from.

"No, Jay. It's late," he answers as if he could guard the uneasiness in his voice and the shaky breath he takes.

"But you promised you'd give me more!" He answers accusatory.

His fingers shakes against the cereal box. He remembers that conversation all too well in one of his early visits to the manor, he had promised Jason more cereal just to shut him up about his rambling of Robin.

"Not– not today Jay," he tries again. His eyes stares down the cereal, hoping it'd go away.

"But you promised!" The sound of a shoe hitting the ground, like a petulant child, "you're a liar! A big liar, that's all you do!"

His breath hitches when the sweet voice morphs to a deep and hollow sound, the words twisting across the air that surrounds him, consuming his mind from any other thought. As if the place is making itself smaller and smaller, trapping him in between the kitchen's walls.

"You never told me the truth of being Robin, and now I'm dead, and it's your fault."

He can feel it, the sharps once blue innocent eyes stabbing his back like the weight of the guilt he has being carrying for too long.

Every apology he had in his throat died down, the uncomfortable and constructive feeling chokes him from inside. He should've stopped Bruce from taking another kid, another bird to be given the illusion to fly before he just went directly to the floor. Except Jason didn't hit the floor, he's wings were ripped out of his body and left to die under the gravel.

"Go away, please." The pleading is soft, shaky to the point of breaking. He is just keeping himself upright by the kitchen counter but he's about to give up to his knees at any moment. "Go away." He whispers to the empty space behind him.

A space that will always belong to the boy whose name is set on stone. Jason.