High Expectations

CHAPTER 5

"Have a seat while your father comes in." Alfred ordered, closing the door when he left. Damian sat down, looking around the interior of his father's study. He'd been here before, obviously, but today the office seemed less welcoming than usual. The small framed picture of Martha Wayne and Thomas Wayne glared down at him, and he looked away. His stomach twisted with trepidation, the same feeling that he always had whenever he'd been ordered to report to his Grandfather's quarters. There, one never knew if they would receive praise or punishment. 
The door swung open, and Bruce strode in. "Your brothers are-" He shook his head and sat down in the large chair. "Did Alfred tell you to come in?" 
"Yes." Damian swung his feet, willing this to be over with. He was almost tall enough to reach the ground, and if he slouched and scooted, he could reach. But slouching wouldn't do, it might unnecessarily annoy his Father. 
"Damian." 
He looked up, bracing for questions or accusations. 
"I said some wrong things yesterday, and I'm sorry for that. I expect too much from you at times, and I forget that you're only eleven." Bruce said 
Bruce didn't expect too much, Damian had failed and that was the verdict. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Bruce held up his hand. 
"Wait. You misunderstood a lot of what I said yesterday, and part of that is my fault." 
Damian shook his head vehemently. This wasn't his father's fault in the least. "I was.." he paused, searching for the right word. 
Emotionally drained. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Repentant. 
"I was not attentive enough to what you were saying. Had I been paying more attention, I could have better understood your point." 
Bruce's first instinct was to nod in agreement, but he realized that, at the time in question, Damian would have been crashing off an adrenaline high, and no amount of training could have counteracted the shock that would have been coursing through his system. "No, Damian. That's not how communication works. I made some mistakes yesterday. We were both under a lot of pressure and tension. You killed someone, Damian. That wasn't what I expected to happen, but I know you meant no harm." Bruce paused for a moment, but when his son didn't speak up, he continued. "We identified him. He was a wanted fugitive, convicted of second degree manslaughter, armed robbery and sexual harassment."
Relief surged through Damian. A eye for a eye, tooth for a tooth, life for a life. His victim had atoned for his crimes with his life, had been weighed in the balance and still found wanting.
No. 
Justice, not vengeance. He certainly had no right to assert judgement. Damian was also a murderer, one with more blood on his hands. If all murderers deserved to die, wasn't he himself a murderer?
"I'm glad he was identified." Damian murmured, biting his tongue against the heady sensation that rose in him, an odd mixture between anger and frustration, grief and confusion.
"So am I. Don't beat yourself up over what happened. We all make mistakes. What's done is done." Bruce looked Damian in the eye before walking out the door, pausing to ruffle his hair. "We're having a family dinner tonight. Everyone's going to be home, and Alfred insists." 
"I'll be there. And thank you." Damian relaxed back into the chair. Did his father mean those words? Or was he simply attempting to comfort him with empty promises? 
Last night, Bruce's raw anger and disappointment had been tolerable, because Damian knew he deserved it. He'd accepted the consequences of his actions all his life, his mother and Grandfather had been sure of that, so why was his father now verbally molly-coddling him to ease his guilt? 
Was it because he was concerned Damian would turn out like Jason, or was he attempting to see if Damian really felt guilty about the murder?
Had he even felt guilty about the murder? Or was he only angry that he'd tarnished his reputation and made himself look like a fool?
He'd messed up. Him. The Blood Son, the one who should have been the best, had failed astronomically. He didn't deserve pity. 
But was his father actually pitying him?