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Damian moved. Damian bent and rippled and flowed across the mat. He leapt and spun, twisting, flipping, landing and springing back into the air with the same effortless grace as his mentor.
The two were excellent distractions. As it was expected they'd be.
Even among this crowd of world class coaches and athletes, many of whom held Olympic medals, a flying Grayson carries a certain level of awe and charm.
His protégé? Even more so. Damian could stick his landings.
It was when his youngest did a move that not even Dick or Cass could duplicate despite their efforts, inborn talent, and Damian's attempts to teach them, that several of the oldest spectators gasp.
"Is that? Was that?" the grizzled American coach asks, not the head, thank god, but still well respected despite the rumors.
"Yes." replies a Russian coach and former Wayne girl. Tasha and he hadn't dated more than a month, both fully aware it was a publicity stunt for his sponsorship. She's still cordial to him, bordering on friendly. For once, it wasn't him or Batman that made the relationship fail. Even Brucie Wayne can't compete with the siren call of crowds and gold.
Her eyes are alight with greed and joy, as are, he realizes, many others.
"I haven't seen that since-"
"Her daughter quit dancing, what? Fifteen years ago? Not on the mats since Dee's last practice thirty odd years ago. Still a shame they never caught the bastards." She glances at him, eyes appraising. "How, Bruce, did you ever manage to bed Talia? Much less impress her enough to carry your child?"
"Are you sure he's not Grayson's?" Wilson asks, tact gone.
Tasha smiles at the billionaire, and he returns it, a bit flustered.
"He moves with the power of a Wayne, has the bones of a Wayne. Not a Grayson. That grace, that fury and flexibility is all from his mother. Besides, Talia might flirt with Grayson, might even sleep with him. She has too much of her father's pride to breed with him. No. That's all demon fire down there. Think of how he'll be when he's fully grown and really comes into his own. Both his mother and grandmother didn't hit full stride until their late teens, maybe Dee would have been even better in her twenties. Talia is," she says.
As she turns away, phone out, Wilson leans against the rail to stare at the boys. They'll always be boys to him, even if Dick is old enough to be Damian's father, albeit a very young dad. Most people believe that rumor, and neither man has done anything to disprove it.
For example, Bruce has never tossed a towel on his son like Dick is doing and ruffled him dry. He has never placed a proud hand on Damian's neck, or drawn him against his chest in a one armed hug and talked with people about Damian like Dick is doing now. Nor has Damian ever looked up at him like he does Dick, with dancing eyes and a mouth struggling not to turn up.
He doesn't know how, not with Damian. Not like he did with the others. Nor would he dare. The boy is too wild, too willful, too dangerous, too broken for him to risk bonding with. It's easier and safer to let Dick do it. He was raised in a circus, danger is his birthright; not a burden and addiction like it is for Bruce.
He realizes that gray haired former Olympian, silver on the vault, gold on the rings, has asked again about Damian's conception. The desire and envy make him uncomfortable; Wilson is only a few years younger than Thomas Wayne would be.
"It was a long weekend in the desert with her father. Some of it was sober." He explains, then asks, "Dee must be Melisande. Did you know her? Why did you refer to that move as, what was it, demon fire?"
Wilson is staring at Dick and Dami, who have returned to the mat. If he hadn't licked his lips while watching the child, if they weren't here about certain difficult to prove rumors and disappearances of fallen stars who never got the chance to shine, Bruce wouldn't be seeing red.
The two are addicting to watch. More times than is good for him or the city, he has shadowed their dynamic duo. It's like watching the peregrines that inhabit his city hunt and court, the two are so well matched in skill and agility.
Tasha voices his fears when she says, "How have you kept the little one from running off to join his brother's circus? Haly's would be the most profitable show on Earth with those two. I'd pay top dollar to see them in the air or on the ground doing that."
They are walk flipping across the floor, folding in half so that the back of their heads touch their calves then bringing their legs over and keeping their heads still so their faces touch their knees. He hates seeing this even as it amazes him. They are too much like rag dolls for his comfort. Gotham has never been a comfortable city when it comes to dolls, less so with Professor Pyg who still talks about the bad little pixie in the rain and his pretty bat that smells like bacon. Dick smells good, yes, but bacon isn't what springs to most people's minds when they think of him.
Bruce knows. He trolls the message boards and other social media.
The leaping dance is far more to his tastes, a bend of cultures and styles with a great deal of capoeira thrown in. Both boys are too good to touch each other, and are eliciting gasps and cheers.
Tasha answers his forgotten question. "Melisande. I had the biggest little girl crush on her. When she moved, when she danced, especially when wielding blades, it was like watching a fire. There were things she could do that I have never seen anyone other than Talia or your son do, even though she tried to teach them to others. She called it demon fire, said it was in the blood. Got it from a grandmother who claimed a djinn sired her son and she hadn't been warm since, from the other grandmother who was a comfort woman's bastard. That one said her father was the son of an orian who was a demon who couldn't die."
Wilson grunts an agreement and says, "Gods, but she was something else. Anyone who saw her desired her. I'm not surprised that after her career was assassinated by that asshole with a pipe that she was picked up by an aristocratic billionaire. At a concert, can you believe that?"
He shakes his head as Tasha answers her phone to speak rapidly in Russian, half turned away from Bruce, about contacting Talia Head because she wants to coach her son and there is no way Talia would ever give up custody of her child to anyone not her father.
It's terrifying how well these people know Damian's mother, Bruce thinks, and how well they are reading his son.
A sign from heaven, a release from this unexpected purgatory arrives with Tim's voice in their comms.
"I got the evidence, and we can make it stick. Let's wrap it up and get out of here."
Damian and Dick immediately go into a show stopping finale that would win either the gold, if Damian were old enough, or Dick willing and able to submit to that level of scrutiny. Bruce turns to Wilson and smiles, extending his card and a handshake.
"Well, you've met Talia. She'd kill both of them if Damian decided to run off and join Dick's circus." They laugh like it is a joke, as if Bruce isn't always aware of the half a billion on Robin's head. That the best assassins won't take the bait, all too aware of Damian's training and blood which is why he hasn't completely locked the boy down. He's sure he could if he really tried. He's Batman. He can figure out how to contain a preteen. Maybe.
If Damian disobeyed her again to rejoin Dick, there is no doubt in Bruce's mind that Talia would take both their heads herself.
Wilson accepts the card. His hands are sweaty, and he is shifting to hide his awkward interest and excitement. Bruce prefers to think it is because of the potential fame and medals Damian will bring, not because Damian will be his rumored type in a few years.
Not that it matters. Wilson's future involves disgrace and a prison gym.
"I don't know if Damian would want to work with anyone but Dick, but if he does..." Bruce trails off and Wilson picks up the thread, "You'd prefer he'd compete for the home team."
"Exactly!" Brucie says and excuses himself to claim his birds and see about getting copies of the recordings people made of them. They'll make excellent presents for Alfred. He's always a pain to shop for.