Author's Note: Damian loses all his common sense and asks Bruce to call him something he will NEVER live down. Fluff aplenty in this, chapter three of Progeny.

Damian's POV

Enjoy.

Progeny 3

Damian

My favourite venue for foiling crime has to be the subway. I like the cramped nature of the train cars, the need for brevity and innovation in such close quarters. I also like using the unique environment to make the scum look really stupid. My current adversary, if you could call them so, has already struck one of the poles three times trying to land a blow on me. He is some drug-addled thief, high on methamphetamine, and unable to realise he is slowly breaking his hands in pursuit of my head. This one almost beat an innocent woman to death for her purse, evidently trying to fund his next hit. It is a disgusting example of this city's depravity. I decide I am done toying with this excuse of a human being and make a point of swinging around the pole and planting both feet in his face. The force and momentum of my hit sends him crashing into a nearby window. Glass breaks in the aftermath, skewering his face with long shards. I still doubt he feels it. Sad.

When he attempts to get back to his feet, I get annoyed and knock him out with a spinning heel kick. The train begins to slow as it reaches the next station. I look out on the platform and see Father stood waiting. He could not catch the train in time. He is getting slow in his old age. When the doors open, I throw what's left of the thief at his feet. A few moments after I exit the train, the doors hiss shut and it moves on without me. Father looks at me and then my broken quarry. He does not seem...unimpressed with my thrashing of this idiot. I hope he approves of my methods. I did, after all, restrain myself in bringing him to justice.

"Do you believe this to be an acceptable level of force, Robin?" He asks without giving indication one way or another. I clear my throat.

"It was not unreasonable, Father. He did not respond to verbal warnings. I did what was necessary." I respond confidently. He regards the thief again, scrutinising his condition with greater attention. I feel ever so slightly anxious at his verdict.

"It is...just acceptable. Try less damaging methods in future."

"That woman may have brain-damage now."

"And we should respond in kind?" He asks, still in a level voice. I know he wishes me to say 'no'. The problem is I very much want to say 'yes'. I escape the conundrum by conceding the point.

"I will...be more careful in future, Father. I promise." My tone is sincere enough. My League of Assassins training is still strong, but I can resist the urge to kill with impunity. I want to please him. I always want to please him, even if I disagree on a fundamental level with his methodology. He nods once.

"Good boy. Shall we escort him to police custody before continuing?" He asks. Three questions in quick succession, all of them procedural in nature. Evidently tonight is meant as some sort of test, perhaps to see if I have evolved in recent months. I nod back.

"Yes. They can provide appropriate treatment."

Our patrol continues in the vein of instructor and student. I do not like his sometimes-condescending manner, particularly when I incapacitate a would-be rapist with four shuriken but tolerate it for the good of our partnership. He is not a stupid man, nor is his methodology flawed. It is merely different to my preferred style. I respect him too much to argue anymore. We stop our final criminal enterprise, the fencing of stolen jewellery from a home-invasion two nights ago, just after midnight. Once the perpetrator has been left with the authorities, Father declares an end to our activities.

Once we are in the car driving back, I can admit to being relieved. I thought Nanda Parbat was cold in winter. Gotham makes it seem like spring by comparison. Even with my survival suit and superior conditioning, I feel the cold in my bones. One glance across proves Father to be immune to the effects. He has resided in Hell so long, it has frozen over a dozen times, and he still has yet to notice. I envy his ability to disregard all external factors without ignoring their presence in combat. I am jealous of many of his attributes. I like it. I am rarely jealous of anyone, due to my inherent greatness, but I like being jealous of Father. Mother believed I had no standard left to master. I am pleased to no end that she was wrong.

"Are you tired, Son?" He asks when we are only minutes from the cave. I scoff.

"Not even close."

"I see. Well, I suppose that means you would like the 'treatment' once turnaround is complete." He says without emotion. I make sure I do not smile in responding.

"I don't care either way." I tell him as he brings the car to a halt in the vehicle park. He inclines his head in understanding.

"As you wish."

Half-an-hour later, we are in the living room. Chopin's nocturnes play softly in the background as a fire burns in the hearth. Father sits on one side of the Chesterfield sofa, leafing through a first-edition print of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. My head rests on a cushion that sits in his lap whilst the rest of my body is free to sprawl across the length of the sofa. I am reading about French impressionist painters. Both of us are silent. This is what Father has come to term the 'treatment'. I do not recall how our mutual fondness for reading morphed into this intimate display of affection. I do not care. I am only glad it did. Every now and then Father's hand glides across my scalp with the same confidence and masculinity he applies to every situation. I enjoy the sensation without needing to voice such pleasure. Neither of us acknowledge these contacts. We simply read our books.

Mother never treated me so. I never realised how starved of traditional affection I was until I was exposed to Father's brand of love. Love does not need to be a grand or sycophantic gesture of intent. I do not need to be hugged or squeezed or fussed over to feel acknowledged. Love is best when it is quiet. I do not need to hear him declare his love for me every day. Weaker men might feel the need to spout such platitudes, desperate to have their child's respect. Not my father. My father is a warrior and above those vulgarities. He earned my respect just from ignoring me. Now he has it, he does not make the mistake of continuing to disregard me. And, because of his bold adjustment of such successful tactics, my respect for him has only deepened.

As I graduate to Cezanne in my book, Father wordlessly offers me a cup of mint tea. I respond to this invitation by adjusting my position until I am almost sat in his lap with my back against the armrest. I then take the cup and saucer into my own lap and sip it gently whilst holding my book open with a single hand. Father mirrors me, holding his own book just above my head and drinking his tea in the same leisurely fashion. We still do not make eye contact. We still remain silent. None of it feels awkward or forced. I have never felt closer to him.

When I finish my tea, Father relieves me of my empty cup and places it on the end-table beside us. I do not return to my reclined position. I like being level with his shoulder. It makes me feel taller. Once he has dispensed with his own cup, Father transfer his book into his right hand and allows his left to rest on my far shoulder. His touch is light and almost invisible. I like it just the same. He only takes it off long enough to turn the page. I like that too. I am important without being his entire focus. I only enjoy the spotlight when fighting crime. Otherwise, I have always enjoyed anonymity, something I feel Father and I share.

"Who is your favourite impressionist, Son?" He asks casually.

I do not answer immediately. I wait almost two minutes then speak. "Renoir, Father."

"Really? I had thought you were quite taken with Gauguin."

"Some days I am. But I am always partial to Renoir." I say. Light conversation with him of this nature is never painful. There is no expectation of greater depth. It is enough to mention anything in passing. I do not make small talk with anyone else, only Father.

When the fire begins to dim and the room grow cold, Father puts the throw blanket over my bare feet without being asked. He knows I despise admitting discomfort in front of him. He spares me the humiliation of showing weakness by pre-empting my needs. He does not expect a word of gratitude from me. I do not give any. He knows such things pain me. We press on with our tomes. Alfred eventually remembers his duties and stokes the fire back to life around one-thirty.

"Have you read Percy Bysshe-Shelley's poems, Father?" I inquire when halfway through the life of Berthe Morisot. I hear him offer up a faint chuckle.

"Yes, Son. Am I to understand that you have too?"

We finally look at one another. I will admit to being slightly stung by his amusement. His smile does not help my confidence. I sneer at him. "I am not stone all the way through, Father. I enjoyed Mont Blanc more than Ozymandias, in fact." This claim is enough to prompt him to close his book. He raises an eyebrow in surprise.

"Is that so? Perhaps you could recite a stanza for me?"

Father is trying to give me an appreciation of poetry. He started with Milton and Donne before insisting I educate myself with Keats and Byron. I did so at his behest, but found their works dull and dated. Bysshe-Shelley however, I enjoyed. I do not wish to give a performance though, not just to amuse him.

"I cannot remember the words exactly, Father." I say. He does not believe me. I can see it in his eyes. They know my memory is eidetic. I recall almost everything I have ever read. The effect is strongest when I find interest in the topic. Like with Bysshe-Shelley. He moves his hand from my shoulder to my thigh, patting it gently.

"Just one stanza, Son. I will not ask for more, I promise."

I emit a sigh. I don't want to, but I will for him. I clear my throat. "Power dwells apart in its tranquillity. Remote, serene, inaccessible: and this, the naked countenance of earth, on which I gaze, even these primeval mountains, teach the advertising mind..."

"You started in the middle of the stanza, Son. Why is that?" He cuts in with more rudeness than I would normally abide.

I loathe having to explain myself, but I do so, for him. "It is my favourite part, Father."

"Why is that?"

"Because it reminds me of you. Now, may I finish or are you going to interrupt me again?" I check sharply. He smiles and holds up a hand in apology. I clear my throat and continue. "Teach the advertising mind, the glaciers creep..."

I do not remember how I came to have my head rest on Father's chest or his arms around my body. I only remember that I did not stop reciting the stanza I had promised him, and that I was word-perfect throughout. "The breath and blood of distant lands, forever rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, breathes its swift vapours to the circling air." I finish, discovering that at some point I closed my eyes and left them that way. I can hear his heart better this way, enjoy the slow beat of a muscle that cannot be hurried by even the most pressing of circumstances.

I know I have betrayed my standards of conduct by engaging in such open displays of affection. Mother said such a thing was weakness. She said if I were to rule the world as I was destined to, the only display of affection I could allow was a quick death. I was a prince, she said, one of such noble blood and bearing that anything other than contempt for everyone around me would lead to my ruination. I believed her then. I even believed her until she took control of my body and tried to have me kill Dick. Of course, the instant I questioned her image of me, she declared I was no longer a prince and that I would never have the world at my feet. But she was wrong.

I may not be her prince, the one who will inherit the earth and rule over it with an iron fist, but I am his prince. I may have pretenders to the throne who try to outshine me in a bid to impress him, but that hardly matters. Their hearts are not made from his heart. Mine is. Their blood is not his blood, but mine is. Mother can have the world and do what she wants with it. I don't care anymore. She is merely jealous I am my father's son. It is something I am always proud of.

"Excellent rendition, Son. Your grandmother would have loved it." He tells me without an excess of hyperbole. I note his heartbeat has not increased either, confirming that he is not lying. I choose not to move off his chest in posing my next question.

"What do you like best about me, Father?" I realise it is a loaded question. That is entirely the point of asking it. His heartbeat does not increase faced with this mortal dilemma either. I feel his hand comb the back of my head.

"Too many things to list in one sitting." He informs me. That is not good enough. I am giving him the most agreeable side of my person at this moment: he cannot offer that drivel in response.

"Perhaps you might try harder this time, Father. This is hardly a high point for me." I say to strongly urge him to give me a legitimate answer. He sighs lethargically.

"Then I suppose the thing I like most about you is when you call me 'Father'."

"I call you that all the time."

"I know. I still cannot quite believe it."

"You have...other children, Father. I am not your first."

"Perhaps not, but none of the others call me 'Father', even though they are all entitled to do so. I thought I would hate the term, until you said it."

"That is what comes to mind? Out of all my 'many things to list in one sitting', you choose the fact I have mastered pronunciation of the word 'Father' as my best feature?" I say shoving away from his chest, kicking off the blanket and preparing to leave him to think about his abhorrent treatment of my feelings. He does not try and stop me.

"Perhaps you are your mother's son if you cannot grasp the enormity of my concept." I hear him say before I am out of earshot. The bloody cheek. I storm back over to him and jab a finger in his face.

"I am not her son. Do not try to goad me into pledging my allegiance to you by lambasting her. Her father was an immortal crackpot. You have no excuse for your behaviour to me."

"They only call me Bruce because I refused to let them call me 'Father', Damian. I was never at ease with the title, or the role. I felt I had no right to be labelled as such. I felt it was disrespectful, not just to their fathers, but my father too. Parenthood felt like too great a responsibility to accept. Until you. You called me Father immediately. You never stopped. Your determination to make me acknowledge my responsibility to you, whether I liked it or not, finally wore me down. Now I want them all to call me 'Father'. And they won't. Irony does not begin to describe it." He says with a wry smile. I narrow my eyes at him.

"I wore you down, did I, Father?" I say, unimpressed by his choice of phrase. It makes me sound like a pest more than anything else. He takes hold of my wrist and pulls me back into his lap without forcing it. He crosses his arms over my chest and squeezes me softly.

"Yes, Son. And I am glad you did. Accepting that responsibility and embracing it has made me a better man. And that is all thanks to you." He says to make me feel somewhat less embittered by his nonchalance. He audibly smirks. "I don't know why you get so worked up about something as trivial as your 'best attribute'. It makes you seem awfully silly. I love you just as are, which means I like your worst attributes as much as your best because all of them make you. What more can I possibly say?"

"Call me your little prince." I mumble quietly under my breath before I can stop myself. What on earth did I just say? What kind of order was that? It sounded more like a plea. I pray he did not hear that absolute dreck. He goes very silent. I say nothing.

"Would you mind repeating that, Son?"

"Repeating what, Father? I coughed. That is all."

"That didn't sound like a cough. It sounded more like 'call me your little...' And then I didn't catch the last word. So, you're my little...what?" He says, his tone almost demanding the truth. I can't lie to him a second time, not after he heard all that.

I swallow hard before destroying my reputation and standing altogether by uttering one word. "...Prince." I say to plunge the room into deathly silence again.

"You're my little prince? That's what you want me to say?" He checks with incredulity in his voice. I want to die. I think I almost do. Then Father snorts and firms up his grip. "That obviously goes without saying. How could you possibly be anything else with a request like that?"