If there was one thing Blake could and would easily agree to, turning the spotlight from himself is quite near the top of the list. He'd never gotten comfortable with opening up to people. Those more formative years were to blame. While being bounced back and forth between state and foster care, he was afforded ample opportunities to open up, but it was a whole new set of people, a whole new family every other month.
For Blake, it wore pretty quickly and thoroughly. Most foster families lacked a general interest. Most foster families focused on the here and now. At such a young age, he received the wrong message over and over again, each time solidifying the knowledge that no one cared, no one listened, no one wanted him. They wanted their own child with family-appropriate thoughts, hopes, and dreams. Honestly, when Blake turns stoic, turns robotic, puts on a mask, it's just another defense mechanism, another learned practice, to fend off the feigned interest and the insincere acceptance.
This was different, though. In this journey, in this spiritual convergence, the whole point was for Martha to discover more insight; he'd be remiss not to oblige.
"Yeah, let's walk," he suggested easily. "Can walk an' talk at the same time. Real enlightened individuals can, at least." For a joke, he thought it wasn't that bad, but instead of laughing at his own quip, he returned to the question at hand. "Martha Wayne's kinda like my boss. Sorta. See, the Wayne family's a staple in Gotham — like the Rockefellers with New York City — and so your namesake did a lotta philanthropic stuff 'round here. 'Specially with the parks an' schools an' things.
"What I do now, too. Mean I'm chairman for the Martha Wayne Foundation, not doin' it just 'cause." He paused, and looked oddly perturbed with himself for just a moment. Meanwhile, the robin flew overhead, circling the pair as they moved from one section of the small park to another. "Would do it just 'cause — have, too — but I'm gettin' paid for it now. Buildin' parks, fixin' up schools, doin' what we can for the kids."
The robin chirped. "He's always been good with kids. You know, he'd make a great dad, but he's too afraid to consider the possibility. Just because you lost your parents doesn't mean your kids will lose you, am I right?" It landed gingerly on Jones' shoulder and puffed its feathers beneath Blake's less-than-pleased gaze.
It was true, he did get along well with children, and somewhere deep down he was convinced he could do right by any kid, but that worry over loss was bone-deep — deeper yet than his desire. He couldn't possibly face the idea of leaving his kids behind if something happened to him. And since he was the goddamn Batman, odds were in his favor that something would. In the end, it was easier to do without than to risk ruining the life of some innocent child.
He sighed and rubbed his hands together. It wasn't so much a nervous tick, but he'd certainly stiffened in the last few moments. "Guess I oughta mention I got benefit from Martha's good will: funded St. Swithin's Home for Boys all the years I was there. It's how I got the job," he added, and while it wasn't the whole truth, it certainly wasn't a lie: Blake had spent eight years there himself. As if to punctuate the scene, he gestured to his parents' gravestones as they meandered past, the dates of death separated by only three years, his mother's larger and severely aged, his father's smaller and well-kept.
no subject
For Blake, it wore pretty quickly and thoroughly. Most foster families lacked a general interest. Most foster families focused on the here and now. At such a young age, he received the wrong message over and over again, each time solidifying the knowledge that no one cared, no one listened, no one wanted him. They wanted their own child with family-appropriate thoughts, hopes, and dreams. Honestly, when Blake turns stoic, turns robotic, puts on a mask, it's just another defense mechanism, another learned practice, to fend off the feigned interest and the insincere acceptance.
This was different, though. In this journey, in this spiritual convergence, the whole point was for Martha to discover more insight; he'd be remiss not to oblige.
"Yeah, let's walk," he suggested easily. "Can walk an' talk at the same time. Real enlightened individuals can, at least." For a joke, he thought it wasn't that bad, but instead of laughing at his own quip, he returned to the question at hand. "Martha Wayne's kinda like my boss. Sorta. See, the Wayne family's a staple in Gotham — like the Rockefellers with New York City — and so your namesake did a lotta philanthropic stuff 'round here. 'Specially with the parks an' schools an' things.
"What I do now, too. Mean I'm chairman for the Martha Wayne Foundation, not doin' it just 'cause." He paused, and looked oddly perturbed with himself for just a moment. Meanwhile, the robin flew overhead, circling the pair as they moved from one section of the small park to another. "Would do it just 'cause — have, too — but I'm gettin' paid for it now. Buildin' parks, fixin' up schools, doin' what we can for the kids."
The robin chirped. "He's always been good with kids. You know, he'd make a great dad, but he's too afraid to consider the possibility. Just because you lost your parents doesn't mean your kids will lose you, am I right?" It landed gingerly on Jones' shoulder and puffed its feathers beneath Blake's less-than-pleased gaze.
It was true, he did get along well with children, and somewhere deep down he was convinced he could do right by any kid, but that worry over loss was bone-deep — deeper yet than his desire. He couldn't possibly face the idea of leaving his kids behind if something happened to him. And since he was the goddamn Batman, odds were in his favor that something would. In the end, it was easier to do without than to risk ruining the life of some innocent child.
He sighed and rubbed his hands together. It wasn't so much a nervous tick, but he'd certainly stiffened in the last few moments. "Guess I oughta mention I got benefit from Martha's good will: funded St. Swithin's Home for Boys all the years I was there. It's how I got the job," he added, and while it wasn't the whole truth, it certainly wasn't a lie: Blake had spent eight years there himself. As if to punctuate the scene, he gestured to his parents' gravestones as they meandered past, the dates of death separated by only three years, his mother's larger and severely aged, his father's smaller and well-kept.