Where BriBats Fly

Birthdays brought baggage for the Waynes:

For Bruce, whose parents were gone, and whose children were scattered like dandelion seeds adrift on the wind.  

For Dick Grayson, who had too many families to manage between Gotham and Bludhaven, the Titans, and more. Too much love, for far too many.

For Jason Todd, whose family was small, and far, and he hoped smart enough to realize he’d never reach out on his own.

And Tim Drake, who only wanted his after it was gone.

Damian Wayne grew up surrounded by the sort of history most men called myths. Dragons, and assassins. Ninjas and warriors.  Resurrection.  Even demons. Both the kind with an uppercase D and lower.

He was raised on the impossible.  So when Alfred walked through the front gate of the newly-rebuilt Wayne Manor, dressed as impeccably as always, he wanted to believe it was real.  He wanted to let himself – for just a moment – believe that Alfred had, miraculously, found his way home.

And why not? Todd had been spared from death. Father, too.

He’d left Gotham more than once. Gone wandering, hoping to find a new home. A new place that felt right in his heart, his head, and his bones.  A new place, without all the trauma.

Tabula rasa – a clean slate.

And he’d tried. More than once.   But men like him didn’t get clean slates. Had never had one – not even at birth. 

No, he was born in Gotham, with a legacy of loss and pain and crime.  He was born in the shadow of bats, and the ever-present threat of bloodshed.

The alley awash in blood, thick and raising higher as the city’s drainage system and the onslaught of rainwater refused to wash it away.

Still the bodies came, hungry, clawing, forcing him to fight back in ways he’d never wanted to.

His bo staff hissed through the air, sending a small girl – and more blood – sailing.

This was how he died? Alone, in an alley, surrounded by zombies?  This was going to be the thing that finally broke him?

Damian Wayne had a build made for sitting on thrones.  He was neither large, nor imposing, but compact and deadly as an asp, or his mother. His muscles stayed lean and tight along his length   Not delicate – far too deadly for delicate – but refined. Perfected.

Regal.

“You will rule the world, my son,” his mother had promised.

Bruce was the sentimental one.  Or so Jason tried to tell himself as he tiptoed through the manor, as quiet as he could manage with all his unfortunate bulk.

He was the one who needed the grand gestures.  The vintage watches restored, the photo albums updated on the sly.  He was the one who cared.

Jason was simply indulging the old man.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t let go. That he still wanted to belong in the family photos. That he needed proof that he’d mattered once.

It was pity, that was it.

His mother unearthed the ruby on a dig, fat and glossy, with a depth that made him dizzy if he stared into it too long.

His father had it set in gold and adorned with diamonds.  Fancy.  No, not fancy – the name for that over-done style his was something else.

Ah! Baroque.  Gaudy, but historically accurate.

It was supposed to be pretty, but it had a funny feel to it, like it was looking into his head. Like it was reading him.

His eyes were bright like the summer sky – the sort of blue that goes on forever.  Bright, like the future he should have had. Bright, like they could make up for all the dark around him. 

His eyes were red, vessels broken like the bones of his body.  Red, and washed in blood – his own blood.  His vision blurred, ate away at the edges even as he tried to stay focused on the timer – on his mother, on dwindling hope.

The day had been – all things considered – successful.  He’d recovered Teekl, had snacks, and even gotten a kiss from a very strange girl.

For a Valentine’s Day, it could have been a lot worse. Except -- and the thought would not leave his head, no matter how he tried to force it! -- she had the audacity to taste like Christmas.

Nearby, a girl-turned-frog croaked, protesting her new form.

The kiss had been for her benefit. To spare her.

His lips burned. Not from the desire to seek out another kiss. It was the cinnamon.