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Never Quite the Same Boy

Word Count: 2,679

Summary: Title taken from the J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan. Bruce and Damian cross paths with Talia on their day off.

A/N: It has become my custom to celebrate my birthday with self-indulgent fic that serves no purpose other than making me happy. Thus, I present to you something of a reconciliation in the far, far off future of my current project--a retelling of Damian's death faithful to the status quo of the Preboot.

"After you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but he will never afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the first unfairness; no one except Peter.”

The finished sand castle was a perfectly scaled model of a League property in Scotland, but Bruce kept that observation to himself as he watched Damian work at refining the arrow loops on the far wall.

The boy was frowning in concentration now, but Bruce had counted four instances so far today where the corners of Damian's mouth had been turned up instead of down.

Dick had been right; this Father-Son outing had been good for both of them.

On strict orders from Alfred, Bruce casually slipped a hand into the carry-all and felt around its confines discreetly.

"Don't even think about it, Father."

Foiled, Bruce withdrew his hand sans camera. Damian didn't even look up from his self-appointed task.

"It's an excellent build," Bruce tried gamely. "We should at least document it for Alfred's scrapbook."

"Tt," Damian scoffed. "I fully intend to do so before we leave, but I see no reason for my presence in the photographs." He gestured irritably at his brightly-coloured swimtrunks. "This is hardly a dignified ensemble befitting a Wayne."

Bruce snorted. "You haven't seen some of the suits that Dick insisted upon over the years."

"Grayson is clearly colourblind," Damian sniffed imperiously. "I have told him so, Father, so if you have been ignoring it out of concern for his feelings all these years, you need not worry any longer." Damian corrected a wayward twig. "I think he took it rather well."

Bruce kept his expression suitably grave as he recovered the camera at last. "Well, that's a relief, I must say."

Damian nodded absently, still studying their handiwork with a critical eye.

Bruce crouched swiftly, turning off the flash and snapping a few quick shots in a matter of seconds. He didn't have Tim's eye for photography, but at least one should be of satisfactory quality . . . providing he had kept his fingers well away from the lens.

"Fath-er," Damian complained, stepping away from the castle.

"Sorry," Bruce offered with very little regret, "Alfred said so."

Damian grumbled under his breath, but came when Bruce held out his arm and leaned into his father's side.

"It's a wonderful castle," Bruce told Damian, taking another picture of the creation to appease his son. "Very detailed. The Functioning Drawbridge of '99 has some stiff competition at last."

This time, the "tt" sound was distinctly pleased.

Bruce squeezed his son's small shoulders and enjoyed the way Damian relaxed into the embrace.

"What do you say, Son?" Bruce murmured, flipping the camera in his hands. "Just one more for the scrapbook?"

"Well, not at that angle," Damian huffed, rescuing the device. "You'll lop off both our heads like that. Reypenaer."

Bruce barely processed the non sequitur in time to flash his pearly white teeth at the camera. He hoped Damian had done the same, but honestly, there were too few pictures of the boy to quibble over what expression he chose to wear in them.

"You owe me," Damian informed him as the boy looped the camera around his own neck for safekeeping. At Bruce's confusion, his son elaborated: "I just saved you from both Pennyworth's ire and Drake's disdain." The corners of Damian's mouth twitched upwards--five. "I shall take my compensation in ice cream, Father."

"I suppose that could be arranged," Bruce agreed bemusedly. "I take it you want to try the ice cream we told you about?"

"Cassandra said it was quite good," Damian protested, hopping around him as Bruce dug their shirts out from under everything else. "And Drake waxed poetic all night long." Damian skipped the buttons in favor of stuffing his feet into their discarded sandals, but he was young enough that no one on the boardwalk would care. "And you . . . you said that it was your favorite, Father."

"So I did," Bruce agreed, holding out his hand.

Damian was just at the age when the others had started to refuse it, but he still seized his father's hand readily enough. Of course, Bruce was also distracting him with the promise of junk food not normally allowed in the Manor.

The resort was quiet in the off-season despite the perfect weather. Bruce recognized a handful of the other patrons, but he kept his focus on Damian's hesitant chatter.

He had heard the story before--some unfortunate surfing expedition undertaken by the Titans--but had not previously realized that Damian bad behaviour had actually been a crafty plot to avoid having to get on a surfboard himself.

"I can teach you," he offered, when Damian ran out of words. "Not today, I'm afraid," Bruce frowned, glancing up at the sky, "but soon . . . definitely before your next visit to the Tower, I pro--"

Damian looked up instantly at Bruce's slip with Robin already sliding into place.

Bruce barely resisted the urge to block the boy's view.

It was already too late; Damian had closed himself off so completely that Bruce could almost hear the slam of a steel door coming down behind his son's normally expressive eyes.

It had been such a good day, he lamented as Talia approached them purposefully.

Talia smoothly slipped her arm through Bruce's free one. "And where are you two heading now?" she greeted them with cheerful mock-suspicion.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Damian wanted to try the soft-serve ice cream."

"That sounds lovely," Talia murmured, turning to include Damian although she thankfully stayed on her side of Bruce. "Chocolate or vanilla, darling?"

Damian had to work at the response, but his voice was almost normal by the time he ventured: "Father said that it was possible to sample both on the same cone."

Talia gave a little laugh. "What a novelty . . . I should like to try the same, Beloved," she teased, perching on tiptoe to press a kiss to Bruce's cheek.

"I suppose that could be arranged," Bruce allowed, unintentionally echoing his words to Damian. His son's small hand was clutching at his own with almost bruising strength, and Bruce squeezed back as they proceeded down the boardwalk.

They must have made quite the family picture, Bruce speculated as they approached the striped awning. In another universe, it could have even been real--Damian's childish dream come true.

Bruce wondered if Damian missed the days when it still seemed a possibility in this one.

He barely heard Talia's banter with the girl behind the counter or the teasing suggestion that the adults would share a cone. He simply kept the smile on his face as he made agreeable noises, paid for the treats and began calculating possible extraction points.

Damian accepted his cone and swiftly moved a few feet ahead of them to settle on a cement stand for the coin-operated binoculars that dotted the rails.

Bruce almost reminded the boy to keep close, but he doubted the wisdom of allowing Damian to hear whatever Talia had to say.

With that thought in mind, Bruce escorted Talia to portion of the railing just out of earshot and leaned against the worn wood. They stood in silence, both pretending to look at the ocean when they were really watching their son struggle to keep ahead of his treat.

Bruce wondered if the boy even tasted his prize.

"I'm impressed," Talia remarked, managing her cone neatly. "You can barely make out the scarring."

"I'll thank you to keep such thoughts to yourself," Bruce managed levelly. "Unless you'd like Damian to hear the story behind your own."

Talia touched the fine line across her cheek. "I'm suprirsed it hasn't become a favourite bedtime story," she returned. "Miss Brown has so few tales of glory to call her own."

"I wouldn't say that," Bruce censured mildly. He couldn't help the proud smile. "She did bring St. Hadrian's down from the inside after all."

"Touche."

They looked up almost as one to find Damian watching them. He dropped his gaze, but he was successfully staying ahead of the would-be drips now by employing his mother's technique.

"He has always been the most beautiful little boy," Talia mused fondly.

Bruce thought so, but he was a parent and biased. "He looks too much like me at that age," he argued instead, "but I suppose he'll grow into those ears someday." He chuckled. "I did."

"They're lovely," Talia protested.

"Not when you're eleven," Bruce countered.

Was this what they were doing now? Making small talk about their child and pretending that the last year had never happened?

Bruce suddenly felt both his age and the exhaustion that followed. "What do you want, Talia?"

The dark-haired woman polished off the last of her cone and dabbed delicately at her lips with the paper napkin. It was a strange effect; the Talia that he had known was meant for gelato and actual silver, ancient cities and dedicated wooing.

They had not been those people in some time.

Crisp and professional now, Talia was blunt: "I am here to renegotiate our current custody arrangement."

"No."

It was cold, seething, and final.

Talia pushed anyway. "He is my child, Bruce, and I miss him. Hard as it may be for you to believe, I love Damian dearly."

Bruce couldn't even get the words out through his sheer rage.

"I made a mistake, Beloved. I only ask for the chance to rectify it." She laid her slim hand over his own white knuckles. "Please, Bruce, he is my son."

"You lost any right to call yourself his mother when you put a bounty on his head," Bruce managed quietly. "If there was ever any real affection between the two of us, it was destroyed when you had my son killed to make a point."

"I know you're both angry at me," Talia insisted. "You have every right to be, and I will do whatever it takes to make it up to him . . ."

"You can't make something like this up, Talia!" Bruce whispered harshly, leaning in only to keep his words between them.

He had to be ever mindful of the too-inquisitive child that was perfectly capable of reading their lips at this distance. Talia did not seem to share the same burden.

"Damian is not angry. This is not a snit. He is not punishing you. He is hurt and confused and . . . and your son is afraid of you, Talia." Bruce took a deep breath. "Angry doesn't even begin to cover what I feel let alone Damian's feelings on the matter."

Talia was silent, but Bruce could see the argument formulating in her expressive eyes. Bruce looked away; he didn't care to hear it.

"Damian is staying in Gotham with Dick. It's his home now. It's where Damian wants to be. And," Bruce exhaled slowly, "it's where he's safest . . . from the both of us."

"That isn't fair."

"I don't care." Bruce forced himself to meet Talia's eyes again, and Damian might look like him in miniature, but the expressions . . . the expressions were all Talia. "I will not renegotiate." Bruce steeled himself against the pain in her eyes by remembering the pain in blue ones. "You have until the end of the boardwalk, Talia, and then I need you to leave."

"You have no right," Talia swore softly, "no right at all, Bruce, to stand between a mother and her child. Damian needs me."

"Damian needs you to stay out of his life," Bruce corrected, "until such a time when he is willing to invite you back in."

He pushed away from the railing and signaled for Damian to rejoin him. If Talia had a hand to play, he wanted Damian in reach. The woman's eyes flashed, but for now she seemed to followed his lead, linking their arms once more as Damian approached, scrambling up the rails to put himself at their level.

"Did you see anything interesting?" Bruce asked, forcing a jovial tone.

"Just some boats," Damian shrugged, camera catching on the now-closed buttons of his shirt. With the scar hidden away, Damian seemed to have regained some of his equilibrium although the boy was careful to keep Bruce between mother and son. "The beach, if you angle the scope just right. Our castle is still standing."

"High tide is a ways off yet," Bruce agreed. "We could come back later if you want to watch it come in."

Damian considered it, but shook his head. "I'm tired."

"Too much sun," Talia chided gently, peering around Bruce. "And you have ice cream . . ."

Damian flinched from her touch and would have fallen from his perch if not for the woman's quick reflexes. For a long moment, they remained locked together in some kind of frozen tableau.

"Enough, Talia."

It was too harsh, he realized, for Damian's hearing, but Talia obeyed. Her serene expression did not waver as she retreated and tucked both hands back into the safety of Bruce's elbow.

"Your cheek, Dear One," she murmured. "Yes, there."

Damian didn't look at either of them as he rubbed self-consciously at the smear.

"Damian," Bruce murmured, gentling his voice and waiting permission to lift his son--down from the fence or up into Bruce's arms proper, the choice was Damian's.

He didn't receive it. Damian slid from the rail under his own power, landing solidly on both feet with the sharp slap of his sandals meeting the wooden surface. "Yes, Father?"

Bruce studied his son. "Do you want to keep going? There's a souvenir shop at the end where you can personalize keychains or bracelets. It might make a nice souvenir."

Damian considered it, but shook his head. "Maybe next time," he murmured. "I'm tired." His hands fluttered over the camera, and Bruce regretted making the boy leave his mobile in the car.

"We should collect our things and get going then," he agreed. "We can stop for dinner on the way."

"No, I shall go," Talia offered. Her voice was soft, and her expression contemplative. "You still have much left to do in this place."

Damian shook his head again. "I'm tired," he repeated, with a plaintive note. His arms twitched at his side, but did not raise in mute appeal.

Bruce wasn't the World's Greatest Detective for nothing.

"It's a long drive back to Gotham," he defended, releasing Talia to crouch beside his son. Damian accepted the offer this time, curling into Bruce' hold. "He might sleep in the car."

It was a thin excuse, but Talia accepted it. "Yes, that would be good for him, I think." She raised one hand tentatively. "May I?"

Damian turned away and buried his face in Bruce's neck.

Talia cupped her hand around Bruce's jaw instead and leaned in to press two kisses there. "One for you," she explained, "and one for Damian . . . until we meet again."

Bruce watched her go--still the beautiful woman that he had once known, still the powerhouse hidden under the pretty trappings, and still the woman who had given him the child in his arms.

She meant something to him once and probably always would.

Damian meant more.

His son was quivering in his arms, but before Bruce could make any attempt at comfort, Damian twisted suddenly. "Mother!"

Talia paused.

One arm remained tightly locked around Bruce's neck, but Damian cautiously extended the other one, pointing towards the binoculars.

"If you stay," the boy called out haltingly. "If you stay, you could see my castle from there."

Bruce waited to see if Talia would see the childish request for what it was.

You said you'd do anything, he urged silently. Anything to make it up to him. It's not possible, but I want to see you try, Talia. You have to try.

"But of course," Talia agreed and Bruce could breathe again.

Damian watched her over his father's shoulder, but Bruce didn't look back. He didn't need to watch in order to know that Talia would stay in that spot until long after they left . . . perhaps even until the tide came in.

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