ᴘʟᴜᴛᴇʀɴ2010

“Damian,” Dick said, “you know Robin’s protocols? For when Robin is compromised?” Dick waited for Damian’s nod before continuing, “I want you to know, that we have something just like that, for when Damian Wayne is compromised.”  What mattered here was Dick, adjusting his grip on Damian’s hands into a weight-bearing one. Into an acrobat’s one. And then, and Dick hoped that Damian knew how much this part mattered, saying, “That protocol, Damian, is asking me for help.”  Damian’s mouth opened to retort, but Dick wasn’t done. He needed Damian to know how important this was, how serious he was about it.  “No matter what- no matter what , Damian,” Dick emphasized, because he could see Damian already gearing up to argue, “no matter how silly, or horrible, or inconvenient or dangerous the problem is, I will always, always help you.” He squeezed Damian’s wrists, and asked, “Do you understand that, Damian?” “I-” Damian stammered. He glanced towards the bottle on the countertop—finding who knows what from that admittedly good quality bourbon—then back onto their clasped hands. “I think I do,” he said to their hands.