Word count: 650
Day three of the thirty day drabble challenge
Warning: Despite asking for prompts and thinking about them a lot, I kind of use the prompt as the center of a web I'm about to use. I think about the prompt not only thematically, but as a part of an action. That's why there are a few paragraphs of me actually using the prompt and then action and dialogue that don't have anything to do with it. I don't know if I'm misusing prompts.
My dad can't help me move in because he's at work. It's not a big deal. I hardly have anything. The big furniture's up there already, I'm just bringing boxes of my stuff Tim and Steph's house in Old Gotham to the new apartment.
It's hard to explain how annoying walking is all the time when I could fly places in less time with less effort. It's like having to choose slow internet over a fast connection.
I guess that's part of the reason I haven't completely retired the Nightstar uniform. Nightstar is who I really am. I get that Bruce has a similar problem, that he feels like he's really Batman and that Bruce Wayne is the façade. But that's because my grandfather is a little nuts. You have to be, to start all this. But what I'm saying is a little different.
Nightstar is me. Nightstar can fly. Nightstar doesn't have to worry about letting her hair burn. Nightstar doesn't have to occasionally fake sunburn or use potholders when she takes a sheet of cookies out of the oven. Nightstar is Mar'i.
The girl that I'm pretending to be right now is Mary Grayson. Mary wears a jacket in winter. Mary has dull green eyes and, according to Maybelline, Warm Beige skin. I like being her a lot of the time. She gets to go to school and have lots of friends and she even has a modeling job.
But she's not me.
Like I said, that's only part of the reason I haven't retired completely from the superhero gig. I also really like punching bad guys in the face.
As I'm thinking about all this, I get distracted and my shoe gets caught in what is essentially a sidewalk pothole. I could catch myself with flight, but I can't do that in public and I actually have to make myself fall like a normal person.
Except that I don't fall because someone catches me by the elbow and pushes my box back into my arms. I don't like being touched by strangers. First of all, who does, and second of all, my skin is usually a bit warmer than a regular person's, noticeable even through long sleeves like I'm wearing now. People always think I have a fever.
So I wrench my arm back, almost losing my balance again.
"Tt," is the annoyed response.
Ah, cripes. "Damian?" I answer. That's… kind of creepy. "What're you doing here?"
He raises his eyebrows, gesturing for me to look up, and when I do I realize that I'm in front of Wayne Tower. I should have realized. Wayne Tower's not that far from Tim and Steph's house.
"Ohhh. Um, hi."
"I assume you're on your way to the apartment," he observes, eyeing my little box of crap.
"Yeah. I was about to hop on a subway, I just got kind of lost in thought."
There's a pause, like he was about to say something but didn't, then he says, "May I offer you a ride?"
"I, um…" I let my voice trail off as I imagine a scene from a mobster movie where some innocent guy gets into a limo and the mob boss is there holding a gun at the ready. Except that this is Damian, so it would be Talia al Ghul in a killer jumpsuit holding a dagger. He's waiting for an answer and I clear my throat. "Why?
He narrows his eyes at me. "Because your father asked me to be nice to you."
"Ohhh." I don't know whether to be somewhat offended by his bluntness or to be glad that he's at least trying. "My dad asked me to be nice to you, too."
"Hn," he answers. I can tell that he's bothered by that and I feel spitefully satisfied.
"I'll take that ride, actually," I tell him, smiling, and he does not look pleased.