Homecoming at Wayne Manor.

February 27, 2016:

Damian returns to Wayne Manor with tail between the legs.

Wayne Manor

Stately Wayne Manor.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

The rain is cold tonight. As the seasons vacillate between winter and spring, things have taken a bitter turn for the time being and night has come even earlier this evening. A yellow cab with a drabber hue of gold for headlights makes its way lazily through the Wayne Property and up to the gate.

Almost immediately, the tanned skinned, dark haired young man has his clothing properly drenched. Long black curls hang out from the hoodie he wears under his leather jacket. Damian Wayne has never been one much for timidity, but as he depresses the intercom to call the home, he hesitates for just a moment before he pushes it.

"Hello?" he calls out with his deep accent. "Alfred?"

Mentally, he finds himself wishing he'd been nicer to the old man when he had had the chance. Now the shoe is squarely and firmly upon the other foot.

No response is given to Damian by means of the intercom and what seems almost too long a wait the gates finally open with a creak and a metal groan.

Bruce watches quietly from his study and the screen there. Normally the son of Talia wouldn't have 'knocked' he would have just let himself in.
Past the grounds Wayne Manor itself no Alfred to answer the door and no servants. Never really are unless something has been planned. This hour there is usually only Pennyworth anyways.
The front door is not locked and what little illumination there is inside is dim and appears to just be around corners or on small wall hanging lamps. It's kept dark almost as though Bruce has an affliction to light.

Damian re-slings his new bag over his shoulder. By 'new' I mean it's a New York Knicks bag you get when you fill out a credit card application. In other words, it was free, but it was notably un-stolen. The same for the toothbrush that he got from St. Benedicts in Atlantic City on his hitch-hiking trip to Gotham. In any event, he trudges along and upwards along the driveway and finally makes it to the front door.

Damian gives a loud knock upon the door and steps back, looking up at the camera as he does so. If the gate opened, someone must be home. Unless, of course, there was some form of technology that he did not understand that allowed him to enter. If that were the case, he could wait here under the awning. At least it's dry.

The door opens to reveal the the older Wayne. A towel around his neck and the Batcostume on but no cowl, one of the heavier Batsuits, more armor attachments. Not like the Dark Knight unless he intended to get in to thick fighting, deal with a meta or was injured. Patrol in to the Hills or Narrows often calls for heavy armor.
"Damian." The man remarks before pressing the doorway to open further.
"I see you've been traveling."
A hand motions inside in a wave.

"I have, father," Damian responds as he ducks his head down, almost like a dog who has been naughty and is about to be scolded. "I have come here via New York. Well, via the Atlantic Ocean, as it were." He swallows with some difficulty, not really wanting to confront a lot of what he needs to say. At the same time, there's not much choice in the matter.

Bruce is worn looking around eyes and sports a 5'o'clock shadow. It makes him appear more grim and grizzled than usual. "Come in." The door is let go and Bruce starts to walk away assuming if Damian is going to speak he will join him,
"You're back now? Why?" To the point but no emotion in it. No accusation. No anger. Nothing. Just flat question.

"The effects of the Lazarus Pit that my grandfather submerged me in in hopes of renewing my life have begun to wear off. Not the life, part, I mean the psychosis. Over the course of the last year I have worked for him as I attempted to sort things out. In the past month, I began to see with more clarity. When I had my first opportunity to escape, I leaped off a ship we'd stolen not far from Newfoundland, Canada."

Coming to a stop near one of the 17th century Schandmaskes "shame masks" along the wall Bruce turns and reaches out one hand but it stops just shy of touching Damian's shoulder, hovering there before setting down on it.
"I… I am… I don't care. I am just glad you're alive."
Bruce in this odd display of emotion remains out of sorts. His mannerisms are jerky and he just appears tired. A slight turn of his jaw and he retracts his gloved hand. "Clarity. Yes. Word circulates your grandfather is indeed alive, this only further confirms it. The last I spoke with your mother over a year ago she insisted he was dead. I should have known better."
"Alfred isn't here. He won't be for some time.. are you hungry?"

"I am rather glad myself, to be honest," Damian says with a slight chuckle. Always quick to defend his mother, he immediately responds, "I'm not sure she knew he was alive. I imagine it was not her intent to deceive you." At the mention of food, his stomach growls almost immediately. "I am very hungry."

The kitchen is a lot marble to sum it up. Huge and Alfred's pride and joy most days. It's also messy by the butler's standards normal people would overlook it but Bruce is no housekeeper worth a stone compared to his aid.
"I'll make us something."
"What are your plans now? Are you back or are you simply just passing through."
Bruce produces a heavy castiron skillet and begins cracking eggs in to it. No comment in regards to his mother's deceit or otherwise.

"I'd like to be back. I know I erred heavily when I left here last time. I know that my actions led to a chain reaction that bent your rules, drove a wedge with Drake, and eventually led to my death," Damian says as he takes a seat on one of the stools in the kitchen. "In short, I've come to see if it were possible that I could come back, father."

Tossing in meat and vegetables Bruce stares at the sizzling iron, "Considering the end result… I think we all learned a lesson. We're all to blame for what transpired. The only one who tried was Alfred." Turning around to face the heir of the al Ghul's and the Wayne's Bruce's perpetual scowl deepens in a hard stare, "My instruction will be followed, you will not bring shame to this legacy, the Bat, all of this isn't me. This is my parents, it is in their honor, their memory and for the people of Gotham that I do what I do. I only ever wanted you to understand that… I realize I was too harsh, too demanding and I will work with you this time, I will help you see what we're about and maybe, just maybe, in time I'll even give you access to the Batmobile." A light brow quirk as if he just told a joke he found humorous he then turns back around to stir up the skillet, mixing things together. Old grease in it will add flavor.
"Also you're going to put Jason's suit back where it was. We'll make you your own."

"And this isn't me forgiving you or me for your actions or what transpired. This is me giving yo… us another shot. A second attempt at something we both failed at."

"I understand completely, sir," Damian says, looking at the floor. At the comment of the Batmobile, his head rises though, in a bit of a smirk. "You must understand, father, the Batmobile is perhaps the best thing a young man can show a young lady. Unfortunately, it was not successful." At the topic of Jason's suit, he nods. "Unfortunately there are holes where I was stabbed through it. But I will fix it and return it."

He nods again as his father adds, "I understand. Thank you, father."

Potato is sliced while talking and thrown in to the skillet as well, "Then welcome back, son." Bruce says then begins to set out plates.
Somewhere on the other side of the mansion a dog barks. "Guess he woke up. We have a long night ahead of us, eat then get ready and we'll see how sloppy you've gotten, Robin."

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