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Off Exit 28, Rosenburg, New Jersey, State Highway 14, there’s a McDonald’s. It’s rundown and Damian has never counted more than five cars in the parking lot at any given time. Let alone someone in the drive-through. The red Buick is in the back and Damian has long deduced this to be the only full time employee.
There is a Shell gas station across the road that eventually leads to the small town of Rosenburg. It is not meant for semi trucks and therefore never boasts more vehicles than the fast food restaurant.
Rosenburg is decidedly the middle of nowhere. It holds no importance and the only reason Damian has ever spent more than three seconds contemplating its road sign is because Rosenburg is equidistant between Gotham and Blüdhaven. The McDonald’s is on the Gotham side and it was selected because travelers are more likely to dawdle in a gas station lot on the Blüdhaven side, catch a glance of Bruce Wayne behind dark sunglasses and snap a picture. Then Father’s lawyers and Richard’s lawyer would need to email back and forth for days about whether to select Exit 27, Kline, NJ, two minutes closer to Gotham or Exit 29, Elkin, NJ, two minutes closer to Blüdhaven. And no one wants that.
Richard’s standing between the open car door and the frame of his busted Honda. His sunglasses have a wiry green frame that matches his Star City Stags windbreaker. His hands are in his pockets and his mouth is in a firm line. He will not say anything until the car doors are locked, Damian inside.
His Honda, which is beige and has hail damage, is exactly twelve spaces from Father’s polished silver Mercedes. They span most of the lot, as far from the McDonald’s proper as possible. Father’s windows are tinted. Richard’s headlights are on. Richard always arrives first and he always parks closest to the exit.
Father does not get out of the car, even after engaging the parking brake. He tightens his grip at ten and two. His pale hands beg for leather driving gloves. “You have everything you need?” he asks without tone. Stalling. If Damian is missing anything, they are about forty-five minutes too late to retrieve it. It is… nice. That father wants just a few extra moments with him. But Damian has a mission ahead. He mustn’t tarry.
“Yes,” Damian answers, tucking his school bag close to his chest. His duffle of cherished clothing and art supplies. He has doubles of all toiletries, bedding, and chargers. “You will take care of Titus?”
“Yes,” Father agrees. This is a lie. Pennyworth, and maybe Todd if he’s in a good mood, will take care of Titus. Todd, who despite being ‘no contact’ is at the Manor frequently to bake and read with Pennyworth. Damian is not frustrated that Richard does not make the same journey. He is not.
It was silly of him to ask regardless. Titus is not Father’s responsibility like Alfred is Richard’s. He tries not to fret that his two charges miss each other. He tries not to think that he too is stalling.
Father’s fingers are still clutched around the wheel and he hasn’t turned to face Damian. “Have a good weekend. If you need anything, I’m only a phone call away.”
Damian nods sharply. “Four o’clock on Sunday,” he reminds. Father never forgets to retrieve Damian but he has sent others in his stead. It is… disappointing. Especially when it is Drake’s Prius that pulls past the golden arches.
“Of course,” Father says. He is tired today. He is tired most days.
The door handle is cool as he slips his fingers around it. A glance out the window and he can see that Richard is becoming agitated. He will not move from his spot because that would be an unfair triggering of the restraining order, but he does pull his phone out of his jean pocket.
The Mercedes is still humming lowly. The windshield wipers squeal as they smear around the fine layer of mist.
Father told him to wear a rain coat. He didn’t.
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Damian.”
“I-” love you. “-will see you on Sunday.”
“At four o’clock,” Father assures. Except it isn’t very assuring at all because he still does not look at Damian because to look toward Damian would be to see through the tinted windows would be to see Richard with a heavy frown and rapidly typing fingers.
Father is not allowed to contact Richard except for Damian-related emergencies, but there are no such rules barring Richard from sending a ‘strongly worded text’ right now.
“Goodbye,” Damian says again, because it feels more final that way. He unlatches the door and efficiently hooks his backpack over his shoulders and cradles his duffle in his left hand. He pats his back pocket to confirm his phone is accounted for, shivers once at the cool breeze, then shuts the door with a quiet thunk. Father will not leave the lot until Richard does.
Damian sighs silently, then turns on his heel.
His brother has straightened up, features sharp as the wind buffets his thin rain coat. His phone is still out, but he’s no longer typing. Damian walks briskly across the McDonald’s parking lot. The asphalt is half gravel and the yellow lines are faded into mere suggestions. Crabgrass and dandelions sprout in every crack of dirt. One of the other cars in the lot, a blue minivan, drives away. Like most people, the passengers will likely never think of Rosenburg, NJ again. Envy is unbecoming, so he wills it away.
He shivers a second time as he crosses the second to last parking space. Droplets of rain spit down, not a drizzle or a sprinkle. Just water becoming tired of the clouds and diving to splatter Damian’s flattened hair. The gel never survives a full school day.
Richard frowns. He too is tired today. He is usually much better at masking it than Father, but the rain… Damian adjusts his backpack straps. They will be out of it soon anyway.
“Hello,” Damian greets when he is one parking space away.
Richard smiles. It is wane but no less affectionate. He tugs the duffle out of Damian’s hand and wordlessly ushers him around the front of the car. He doesn’t like it when Damian walks around the back and is exposed to the unlikely scenario of a traveler speeding into the lot and clipping him as they swerve into the drive-through lane. Damian obliges, even though the field abutting the lot is more mud than grass this early in the spring.
There’s a soft click as Richard unlocks the already unlocked doors. He places the duffle in the middle of the back row, which is otherwise filled with a basketball, used magnesium carbonate chalk containers, balled up receipts, an empty trash can, many reusable shopping bags, and a green case of sparkling water.
Climbing into the passenger’s seat—no longer a thrill because he is twelve, thank you very much, and has been riding shotgun in the Batmobile for years besides—he catches the familiar apple mango scent of Richard’s air freshener. The little blue clothespin cartridge is plugged into the center air conditioning vent. It is almost empty.
The two doors slam shut at the same time and Richard is a little less world weary. He locks the doors, looking Damian over instead of accessing the environment for threats. His smile this time is more energetic.
“Hey, Dami.” He leans over and kisses the top of his damp hair, which he does not resist because damp hair is punishment enough. Richard ruffles the wet curls then scrubs at his mouth. He clicks his seat belt in place, then observes Damian doing the same. “How was your week?” He puts the car in drive.
He looks left, then right, then left again, before pulling out of the lot, turn signal and all.
Through the rearview mirror, he watches the Mercedes’ brake lights flick on.
Damian rubs his arms, spreading out the water so it can evaporate more quickly. “It was fine.”
Richard frowns at the goosebumps along Damian’s skin. “Did B not bring you a coat?”
He squirms. He does not like it when Richard asks about Father, nor vice versa. “He asked me to. I forgot.”
The frown only deepens, but he can’t study Damian fully while merging onto the highway. “There’s- I know there’s a sweatshirt floating around somewhere in the back. I can pull over and-”
“I am not cold,” Damian responds. He doesn’t want to pull over. He wants to- “Mrs. Flores denied my requisition for additional materials.”
His brother stills, momentarily distracted from glancing into the mess of the back seat. “Aw, Dami,” he empathizes. “That sucks, I’m sorry.”
Damian shrugs. “It is… disappointing. But I will make do with the available paints.”
Farmland rushes by on the left while a forest rushes by on the right. He can no longer see the McDonald’s, nor Father.
A kick of hot air bursts through the vents as Richard adjusts the heaters. Damian is warmed twice over by the gesture.
“That’s a great mindset, bud.” His smile turns bittersweet. “You’re so big now. I’m going to pick you up one of these days and you’ll be taller than me.”
“Hardly a feat.” Damian sniffs like he doesn’t miss being small enough to tuck himself behind Richard’s slight frame and disappear completely. He stares out the window, pressing his cheek against the cool glass that catches his breath in little bursts of fog. Like Father, like Richard, Damian is tired. The mission that lies ahead… it is not for the faint of heart. Already, his stomach churns and his finger tips prickle.
The windshield wipers flick away the water, heavier now that the vehicle is moving, but still hardly anything. “What’s up?” Richard asks because he knows Damian better than Damian knows himself.
He sighs and sits up fully. Best to say it now, so Richard doesn’t perseverate himself into an early grave. “The painting for Mrs. Flores’ class will be displayed at Gotham Museum of Art as a part of their young artist’s outreach program.”
His brother’s face lights up. “Dami! That’s awesome!” He catches Damian’s melancholy look, only partially put on. “Do you not want yours displayed? I can call the school and-”
“I do want mine displayed. It will be the best in the class,” he asserts. “There is to be a ‘kick off event’ in the gallery. Artists and families are invited. It is on the first Friday of April at 19:00.”
Richard nods, mentally reviewing his schedule. “I should be able to make that work. Carly still owes me a swapped shift after I took over her preschoolers with about fifteen minutes of warning in December.” An elephant never forgets, his brother likes to say, usually in regards to whoever’s snack he is pillaging in petty revenge. “Is that what you were worried about?” His eyebrows draw together. “I’ll always be there to support you, baby bat.”
Damian’s stomach clenches at the lie. If it’s a school night or along Batman’s patrol route or in an official WE PR capacity, then no, Richard will not be there for him. Per the custody agreement, he has no right to be.
They pass a white and blue semi truck, water spraying against the windshield and wind thundering in his ears. “I would like you to attend. And Father.” He says it now, so that he can’t hear the words come out of his mouth.
“I.” He brings the car around the Swift semi. The windshield wipers clear the view of the road ahead. He swallows. “I can work out a schedule so that we can both attend.” And he means his lawyer. And he means a hundred feet away, at separate times, with absolutely no overlap.
Damian is selfish. So, incredibly selfish. Because he does not want Richard and then Father to attend. He wants Richard and Father to attend, shoulder to shoulder, reaching for the same refreshments, patting Damian’s back in tandem, praising his art with shared air. It burns, searing under his skin, his ingratitude. He has so much. He has Father. He has Richard. He has Mother. And yet he wants, like some vile, needy creature. He wants his parents to get along and for all the anguished history between them to disappear. He wants to shred the custody agreement and spurn the lawyers and be held fast. It claws at his lungs, burgeons in his throat.
It slips down his cheeks in silent tears.
“Oh,” Richard breathes. “Oh, buddy, what’s wrong?” His right hand hovers uselessly where his head once was, comfort unable to make contact as Damian curls in on himself.
The words strain as he forces them out. “I want you the whole time,” he admits. Pathetic. Childish.
Richard’s fingers find his still damp hair, carding through, never deterred for long.
“It’s only an hour and I thought- I thought-” He can scarcely breathe, let alone think. Everything is so tight. He yanks his shirt collar away from his neck. There’s never time to change out of his school uniform before leaving for Richard’s on Fridays and now every piece of clothing grates. His socks, his pants, his shirt too rough. His arms too bare, his hair too wet.
“Shh,” Richard soothes, but it’s distant and Damian is being ridiculous. “It’s okay, baby, let it out.” But he too sounds wrong, disjointed because Damian is selfish. In the rain no less, ungrateful child.
He throws off his shoes and his socks with force because it’s never against the rules to be barefoot in Richard’s car even though it does not receive regular detailing like Father’s.
The turn signal is clicking again. Exit 42, Pasture, NJ, looms ahead.
“No!” Damian demands. They cannot stop. They cannot stop. They never stop on the way home, that would be wrong, that would be-
“Okay, Dami,” Richard agrees in his softest voice. “I’ll keep driving, I will.” They are already going ten below the speed limit. The semi from before merges into the left lane to pass them. “Can you get your headphones from your backpack?” His fingers smooth down Damian’s exposed back.
He shakes his head, then again, then again. “We’re talking.” He can’t talk if he can’t hear. He can’t explain or grovel or demand if he can’t hear. His throat contracts.
“I know, baby bat. We’ll keep talking. But it seems like this conversation became a lot really quickly, yeah? I bet a five minute pause will make it a whole lot easier to talk.”
Damian scrubs at his traitorous tears. This is all his fault. This is what he gets for being so selfish. He spends all week with Father perfectly functional but the moment he’s alone with Richard, his body starts tearing itself apart, his mind screaming with all the warnings of WRONG that built up over the week. He hugs his backpack to his chest, tears pooling against the water resistant material.
He should know better than to want. He should know better-
“Dami? Sweetheart?”
He whines, a miserable noise in the back of his throat that he wishes he could deepen into a fierce growl.
“Oh, it’s been a hard week, huh?” The fingers tap gently, nails blunt. “I know you don’t want me to pull over, baby, but I-”
No. No, that absolutely will not do. Damian’s already ruined their leisurely car ride. He refuses to extend it any longer. He yanks the zipper of his backpack and digs through the front pocket until he finds the sleek little case. His movements jerky, he presses the plugs into his ears.
He tries to say, Better, but the words are lodged in his throat. He wipes two open palms across his face to disappear the tears and stares challengingly at Richard.
His brother sighs, features soft with worry. “Okay, buddy.” He reaches down to squeeze Damian’s hand. “Okay, that works.”
Unlike the bulky headphones Richard suggested, the earbuds are largely unnoticeable and Damian is permitted to wear them in class according to the IEP Richard negotiated on his behalf. They still allow speech to travel through, but much ambient noise is dimmed. Damian didn’t realize how loud the road, the car, and the weather are until they’ve all but disappeared. His shoulders relax a fraction. He’s still crying because every time he attempts to quell the tears, he’s reminded of their origin.
He just. He’s so tired of being familiar with the McDonald’s outside Rosenburg, NJ. He’s tired of saying Richard’s name like he’s invoking a ghost to Father and saying Father’s name like he’s jabbing a knife into Richard. He’s tired of the counselor inviting him to the divorce lunch group, of forgetting something at the wrong house, of being carted from city to city during school breaks.
He wants it all to stop.
“Let’s take some deep breaths, yeah? In.” And Richard slowly increases the pressure on his held hand. “Out.” And he slowly releases it.
Damian follows suit, trying to focus on the familiar words and the rough hand and the air in his lungs. He feels so wretched, so frayed, so stupid. He’s meant to be collected and sharp. He’s managed to fail all three of his parents in one moment of weakness after years of carefully plotted acquiescence.
At least he’s with the only one who will promise not to hold it against him.
“I want you and Father to attend,” he whispers, casting aside his backpack in favor of clutching his legs to his chest. His toes curl around the scratchy fabric of his seat. A puff of apple mango catches in his nostrils. The air has become too hot but he still finds himself shivering. The rain beats down, heavier.
His brother lets go of his hand in favor of tracing his fingers along Damian’s spine. “I know, buddy.”
He swipes at his wet cheeks. “I thought… I thought maybe…”
“I know.” Richard clicks off his cruise control, letting the car accelerate back to five over the speed limit. “I wish I could make exceptions, but when I do, things get- I tend to get hurt.”
“Bruce hasn’t hurt you,” Damian mumbles into his knees.
He smiles wanely. There are tear tracks on his cheeks. “That’s not true, sweetheart.” And Damian knows, but he had been foolish enough to hope that the Bruce-Batman distinction would matter.
The warm air flutters silently through the vents. Damian adjusts his earplugs. His socks are among red Uncrustable wrappers and an empty bottle of Sprite. The rain drums against the exterior. He flaps his hands uselessly.
“I’ll ask Alfred to be there the whole time,” Richard suggests gently. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really am. I wish I could- I wish it was possible to make an exception.”
Once, over winter break when Damian got to stay two whole weeks in Blüdhaven after the last day of Hanukkah, Richard brought him to his therapist’s office even though he’s capable of staying home alone. He was meant to wait in the small room outside the office with the magazines and a fish tank, but Dr. Singh asked if Richard wanted Damian to join the session and Richard looked to Damian and Damian said yes. They talked about boundaries and how to verbalize them and how to know when they’re being crossed. It seemed a familiar conversation, yet Richard still fails to tell Damian when he’s pushed too far. He only figures it out when he hears Richard crying softly in the bathroom after he thinks Damian is asleep.
His brother is very very flexible, but not with one person. Because that person has broken him many times, even if Damian is not allowed to know the specifics. Father does not receive exceptions from Richard. Not anymore.
“Okay.” Damian presses against the window again where it’s chilly and there’s less disappointment in his chest.
“I love you, Damian.” The words are familiar. He curls up around them. “I’m sorry that this is so stressful. I never want you to feel like you’re in the middle of things.” Except he is. “You don’t deserve that.” Except he does.
“Okay,” Damian repeats, final for now.
Richard observes him a moment longer, one eye on the road. He must come to some conclusion, because he withdraws his hand from Damian’s back. They don’t speak until they get home.