Re: quicklog -- steph/dami: wayne manor.
[Yes, everyone struggled with Damian Wayne. Before, now. It was simply that now it wasn't his so-called difficult personality (read: his being obviously heads-and-shoulders above them), so much as it was each and every encounter endured involving the lingering spirit of another man with his face, his heart. Every encounter. It was a cursor blinking, it was words whipped at him meant for someone else, or it was the obvious dissonance on faces once familiar to him, disappointment, grief, any and everything but gladness. It should be expected, of course, Damian told himself. Who should be happy to see him? They had all envied him, his blood belonging truly to the Wayne line more than any of theirs ever could. They had all despised him. If things had changed over time, slowly, and if he had gotten closer to Grayson, to anyone, years apart wiped that away—and he was facing them each again, aware of the thoughts that filled their so-empty skulls: he's different, it's not him, he's not my brother. He knew, because he had them too.
He was not a Damian. He was Damian, and all of this clone/hotel business was starting to irritate the man. He was not someone else. He was not their bones risen from a grave they themselves dug. He was not new. He could not even be called different, as there was no one to compare him to. He was himself, completely, and if no one but him saw that, it was to their own detriment.—Stephanie commented on stoicism and Damian just rolled Wayne-blue eyes.
She smiled at him, her cheeks fuller now, face filled out (all of her filled out, as he had to witness with some annoyance, thanks to her choice of clothing), and she dragged out a cast-iron pan.] Good, then he'd finally be dead, [Damian said of Alfred as he moved to wet the rag he found.
He waited with impatience until the woman pushed aside all of her waffle ingredients and jumped up onto cold granite. The exhaustion she felt was apparent in looseness in her muscles, in the draw of hunger on her face, and Damian could see it too, in her eyes, as she watched him. He lifted one of her legs, held it by her heel in his palm, warm, and began cleaning the more shallow wounds first.] My medical judgment, [he informed her with arched eyebrows,] is impeccable. [He squatted some, to look at her calf, the rag stroking with regular, controlled movements he managed to keep soft. He had tended to many, many wounds over the years, his own and others'. It wasn't easy to ascertain if he was joking or not, but he did flick his gaze up to Stephanie's with an almost-smile, before white swept up to one of the nastier gashes. If a younger Damian might have considered such work below him, it no longer occurred to the man in the kitchen. It was simply a necessity.
Dark fingers turned Stephanie's leg at the knee as he moved to her thigh.] This is ridiculous. Were you wearing your prostitute's clothing in a jungle?