Near the stables: Barbara G/Damian W
He did his best to blend in. It was a skill, after all, and an important one in any assassin's repertoire. But Damian was better suited to lurking, shadow-wise, than he was playing "dress up and blend in." Blame the costume, tights and red and branded, he had taken to wearing as Robin, the purpose of which was to stand out.—Still, he managed to do better than that tonight, however low the bar. No tall green boots, no yellow cape. There was no Batman, and thus, there was no Robin. Navy ringer tee, outlined in black, layered over a thermal, dark jeans, and he really should've brought his hoodie along. He realized this too late, leaning against century-old stables, waiting for Barbara. The white undershirt was a bad idea, too visible from afar. But, Damian trusted in his own ability to suffuse himself into the background—into those shadows he preferred, and he wasn't concerned. Truth be told, he figured he and Barbara had as much a right as anyone to enter the manor. He was a Wayne. She was Batgirl. It made no difference that Father was young now. And stupid. Ignorant, too. And mostly useless.
No, it made no difference, as Damian and Barbara would fix that. If Father would not play his part, they would play it for him. Gotham needed looking after, and if the man who did it would not—if he would rather play house with the cat, then so be it. He made his decision. Now they would make theirs.
Damian did not know of his own addiction to cigarettes, not here, and thus, as he waited for Barbara, he did nothing. He didn't fidget. He didn't smoke. He leaned, letting ivy coil close around him, stinking of earth, and he waited, eyes open, waiting to spot redhead and chair. Bat-Cow was now safely stabled, and she lowed softly, sensing someone was nearby. The boy turned his cheek toward the building, but he said nothing.