Talia had told him, when he'd seen her for the first time at his eighth birthday party, that he looked like his father. She'd seemed contented about that, when she'd said it, like a cat who had successfully caught and killed a canary. She'd sat him down, and had petted his hair, and she told him a hundred stories about the man who was his father, and in such a short amount of time, his mother had turned the man into a hero for him, without ever meaning to.
Sitting across from him now, Damian was reminded of how it was when he'd been introduced to him for the first time. He had been ten years old then, and more mature than a ten year old should be. He'd been a deadly little shadow of a child who only wanted his father to accept and approve of him.
In a way, it was like he was meeting him all over again. To this man, Damian was a stranger and in return, Bruce was nearly a stranger too. What had happened to change him, Damian didn't know. But he wanted to know.
At the offer, he shook his head. His stomach was already churning. He didn't think he could keep anything down and didn't want to try. Instead, he leaned forward and talked.
"You were in your mid-thirties. And she did." Talia always had a reason, a purpose. Damian had come to hate her reasons. In the end, her reasons always ended up hurting him. "She wanted me to be worthy of you. And she didn't want you to see me until I was. That took ten years."