Putt Putt

A Word: Ibid.

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"I could kill you in four different ways with this," Damian says as he weighs the golf club in his hands. Examining it with detached interest before sliding it back into the caddy.

"Only four? I'm a bit disappointed, Damian," Tim says. Looking around to be sure there's still no one in ear shot of them. They're lagging. Deliberately enough that most everyone has drifted to where the more active participants are playing.

"Four different ways with countless variations," Damian amends and that's more like it. Tim's in the sixties with his list of how to kill himself, but he's also been including the golf balls and tees with his allowed implements of death. He's starting to consider ways he can use the location and geography as well. "What is the point of this game?"

"The point is that this is a charity event," Tim swipes out with the putter and takes some tall grass out. He likes the way it slices through the air, but the balance is off. "And charity events need some awful, boring hook to get money."

"I know that," the epithet questioning his intelligence/sanity/reliability is strongly implied but not said by Damian's tone of voice. He's really rising to the challenge Dick set before him, but it's not even noon yet. Tim has faith that Damian will slip up and call him some unflattering name before the day's over. "This game, Drake, what is the point of it!"

Fair enough. Tim considers the question before answering. "Some people will tell you it's a game about patience and skill. About calculations and angles."

"The point, Drake," Damian pulls out a couple of wooden tees and slots them in-between his knuckles. They look kind of terrifying in the boy's hands. "I care not for what other people would say."

"Careful," Tim warns with a smile he averts his face to hide it. "You can't insult me but you don't have to go so far as to compliment me."

"I am not! You simply misunderstood what I said," Damian growls, but there's a tinge of color to the back of his neck despite the way he looks ready to punch Tim with the tees. "Answer my question!"

"I'm trying!" Tim shrugs and starts to head to the next hole. Kicking the ball he's been pushing around halfheartedly with him. "I don't really know, alright? I don't see any point to this version of the game. So I can only repeat what people who seem to like it say. It's a pointless game that is associated with rich, intelligent people, and everyone plays into it for the sake of appearances. I doubt all of the people here really enjoy it."

"This version?" Damian follows along. Dragging their shared golf bag behind him in a way that's guaranteed to give the groundkeepers heart attacks when they see the grooves in the green. "Are you saying there is more than one version of this asinine game?"

Sometimes Tim forgets how relatively- Well, sheltered isn't the right word for it, but neither is deprived. He settles on inexperienced as being the closest word the English language has to offer to what Damian is.

"Golf like this is a rich man's sport," especially with how much a membership just to get in these greens cost. He's pretty sure this charity event isn't going to raise as much money as the collective group paid getting outfitted and into it. "There's cheaper versions of the game marketed to the masses that are actually far superior to this version."

Which is a really bad way of explaining putt-putt to Damian without the boy recoiling from the name and calling him a liar. He can almost feel the smackdown he'd be getting if Steph or Jason were around to hear him. They're not though, so Tim just sticks with it.

"And is there a point to those versions?" Damian sounds doubtful as they stop at the next hole. He's holding his golf ball and is eying the distance. Probably wondering if he can simply throw the ball and make it. It would be just as interesting as hitting it with the clubs as far as Tim's concerned.

"Oh, yes," Tim thinks about the last time he'd been to a mini-golf course. About Jason and Dick turning it into a drinking game because the place served beer. Cass and Steph pulling him into the go carts set up next to it. The way he'd almost gotten a black eye from trying to hold Jason back from going after the windmill. The cheating, distractions, and outright violent sabotaging. He smiles and Damian perks up in interest when Tim says, "Annihilating the opposition."

"I think I would like to play that version," Damian eyes the ball before dropping it back into the bag. He takes a club out and swings it like one of his blades. Mouth turning down in displeasure.

"Hm," Tim looks over to the next hole where people are chatting with delicate glasses in hand. Clapping politely and casually betting the kind of money that could buy two mini-golf courses. Dick's doing something stupid with Bruce's clubs while the man is busy talking. Hands going wide and fast when like they do when he's putting people at ease with his airhead schtick. "You really would, but you'd lose your bet with Dick if we went today."

Damian scoffs at the prediction, and Tim watches as Dick pulls out his phone. He turns towards them after a second and shoots off a salute. Tim turns and Damian is putting his phone away. "Nonsense. I have far more control than that, I simply choose not censor myself needlessly."

"If you say so," Tim feels his own phone vibrate in his pocket as he contemplates the slowest way to get his ball from here to the hole. Maybe he could putt the thing the whole way. It keeps vibrating but he doesn't check it. He can see Dick across the green on his phone, and the broad grin across his face. He's arranging it all no doubt.

Tim wonders if today is going to be the day they get Jason and Damian to bond, and whether or not the windmill will survive it.

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