Demons (Damirae)

Chapter Fifty-Three

After receiving the call from Jackson and discussing the next steps with Raven -and playing a game of lips, tongues and hands- Damian found that he'd lost the motive to finish the picture he'd begun. Resolving that he'd conclude the portrait when his mind was settled, Damian left the confines of his personal space to venture downstairs and in to the kitchen.

Tea.

He was after tea. Tea cleared the mind. Tea helped the world come to reason.

Tea made everything better.

This lone goal guiding his actions, Damian's feet moved down stairs, through corridors and over thresholds until he stood before the kettle. The tap ran. The water boiled. The tea bag bled. Some lemon and brown sugar later, the tea was made and Damian was as near enough to happy as he could get.

Setting the China cup and saucer on the kitchen island, Damian perched himself on a stool leaning over the brew, inhaling the aromatic fragrances and exhaling tension. Eyelids closing, Damian savoured the sharp, fresh scent, breathing it in as if it was as refreshing as the crisp mountain air of the Alps.

A person, with tea, in a kitchen.

Sometimes life is that simple.

...and then Bruce entered.

"Damian.", his father greeted (it was more of an announcement).

As the man, suited in a typical black business tuxedo, poured a mug of Damian's tea (how criminal), the ex-assassin opened his eyes and breathed in -once more- frustration. Could he not take note that Damian had no interest in being bothered? Apparently not, for Bruce took the seat opposite him, the stolen tea contained in his little, annoying, stupid mug. Shit, Damian was in a bad mood.

Then again, it could have been the ocean of pissed-off-ness rolling off of Bruce. Likely so. His father's vexation managed to seep through his barriers of self-control, casting Damian in to a bitter mood to the extent that he didn't bother to answer Bruce's greeting-of-sorts.

Stealthily observing the businessman sipping his drink, Damian frowned at the bags under his eyes and the slackening of his posture. True, Bruce constantly showed some form of weariness, however, this fatigue reached beyond the usual.

In his usual manner, Damian speculated the cause for such an appearance: Jason's disappearance; the recent attack on the JLA; the lack of progress on the Joker case. Yet, something hinted that none of these were the primary factor in his father's mood- it was deeper than that, like a constant worrying thought that kept one up at night.

Yes. Damian nodded to himself. That was it. His father was in a troubled state. Bringing the china cup down from his lips, the teen's green eyes moved to his father's, searching for answers within them.

When Bruce looked up, he was greeted with the sight of his son staring at him like he was a puzzle that Damian was trying to solve. Neither broke eye contact as Damian continued to look for reasoning. Bruce knew more than to stop his son when Damian seemed invested in something: there was always a purpose behind Damian's actions, albeit often a twisted purpose, a purpose nonetheless.

Raven was in her room. Cassandra had disappeared on another solo mission. Kyle and Quinn had gone to gods knew where and Kori and Dick had taken the rest outside. They were alone. Just Damian and his father. Bruce and his son.

And Alfred Pennyworth was somewhere partaking in the actions of epic butler-grandpas.

Light from the uncovered windows shining down on the both of them, Damian addressed Bruce in a curt, contemplative voice, "Something is ailing you father."