Kryptonite and Scooter Ankles ||J. Kent ||

Part: 2

A/N: I crave the sweet release of death in these pages. 

________ 

Damian could not believe the audacity of his older brother, and never in his life would he be inclined to accept it either. He had hardly been awake for an hour when Richard came bursting in all smiley and positive with the "gift" of a Christmas get-together with the entire family.

Perhaps Grayson forgot that Damian hated everyone but him with a burning passion. Perhaps he had simply mistaken his wakefulness for the ability to hear and put up with utter blasphemy. Or maybe — just maybe — he genuinely thought that he'd enjoy the news upon waking up in solitary confinement from a mission that could have taken his life.

No.

None of that nonsense.

If it wasn't for Grayson to begin with, Damian would be recovering in the batcave instead of the tacky infirmary in Titan's Tower. And it was the absolute worst. Not to mention the constant supervision from authorized Leaguers coming and going like the name 'Titan's Tower' didn't mean a thing. Some place.

It had been two days since Damian woke up, and four since the fiasco out on the town; at first he thought it might have to do with Deathstroke — the mercenary could never find the heart to leave them time for a break lately — but none of this was his M.O.

Given his restless state, even during drug induced sleep, Damian struggled to remember what had happened the night they were attacked. All he knew was that they had gotten a distress call from Kon-El and Bart before the rest of them geared up to find them. Bits and pieces drifted in and out of focus. He wished he could shine more light onto the images hiding just out of reach, but his mind was still fuzzy with anaesthetics.

It was around 1:05pm on Monday when Bruce, as Batman, paid his second visit to the Tower's infirmary where Damian was being kept under strict surveillance. He wasn't going to pretend to deny an inevitable escape plan without it.

"Damian," Batman stood awkwardly at the door. He looked unsure what to do with his hands, now that he wasn't in the action of punching somebody out. That was a usual for him. He cleared his throat. "Feeling better?"

"I don't know," Damian shrugged smally. His left shoulder ached, and was wrapped tightly in white bandages. He didn't know how that happened, but he did know from changing the dressings that he had been attacked with something with admirable fangs and impressive jaw strength. "Perhaps if I wasn't confined here like a worthless rodent,"

"You know why we had to seclude you and your team."

"I'm sure it didn't take this long for someone to identify the exposed substance as lethal or contagious."

"You're right. It only took a day. Dick just thought it would be better to stay here while you recover,"

"-tt- What does Grayson know?" He folded his arms defiantly. "So? Is it okay to leave this place, or what?"

Batman gave his son a contemplative stare rather than answering his question. Damian could feel his calculating gaze right through the whites of his cowl.

"It's fine," He finally said. He busied his wondering hands with holding the sides of his utility belt to hide his residual awkwardness. "The batmobile is out front if you want to come home,"

"I'm insulted that you'd even suggest I'd rather stay here with these imbeciles,"

Batman nodded uncomfortably. "Alright then."

Damian refused help as he slipped out of the infirmary bed, and into the clothes Kori later dropped by for him. He wasted no breath in any goodbyes, as most of the Titans were recuperating off someplace private to themselves. The only one who saw them leave was Raven, who spent a good deal outside when she could; she nodded farewell, and got a soft glare in return, which she accepted without complaint. Damian's soft glare was indeed tender, and much different to his hard I-Want-Nothing-More-Than-Your-Utter-Demise glare.