Title: Well now I am fine thanks to you
Word Count: 792
Characters: Stephanie Brown x Cassandra Cain
Rating: G
Summary: Cassandra saves Stephanie from her boring day. (wrote this for the 2013 DCU Fic Hunt)
Stephanie stayed on her couch bored completely. There wasn't any missions, no plans, and definitely no something to do. Just her with a TV displaying a game show she could care less about and a plate of what used to be waffles on the floor.
She groaned loudly at her uneventful day, only turning over on the couch, making a sound of distaste with every turn. Her groans of boredom continued till they became interrupted by what sounded like a motorcycle braking and getting turned off.
She blinked, remembering that none of her neighbors owned nor were anywhere close to owning a motorcycle. Stephanie jumped off the couch, heading straight for her window to see who it was.
Looking down, she spotted Cassandra kicking her kickstand into place while taking off her helmet. Stephanie couldn't help but smile at the fact that Cass came to visit her. She was getting a tad too giddy about this. Maybe too much. Stephanie began jumping excitedly, hopping to her door waiting for the sound of the door bell. She was on the 4th floor, but that didn't stop her from waiting in front of her door.
With the first knock, Steph instantly opened her door.
"Hey," She welcomed.
"Hey," Cassandra replied before ruffling her bed head and giving a small smile.
Cassandra made her way around the plate and sat on the couch. She sat politely like she always did when entering Steph's apartment.
"How are you today, Stephanie? Are you well?"
Stephanie closed the door and plopped down on the couch next to Cassandra, still giddy. "Well now I am fine thanks to you. My day was so uneventful."
Stephanie gave a quick unamused look. "I was so booored," she drawled out.
Cassandra sighed and wrapped an arm around Stephanie's shoulder. "Well we can always go outside, but seeing since you're lazy at the moment."
Stephanie didn't even argue, knowing it was true. "It's too hot outside," she whined slightly. She glanced at the other before tilting her head to the side. "What do you want to do that includes being inside?"
The raven headed girl shook her head. "What am I going to do with you," she said, getting up to turn off the television and going to the kitchen to clean up the plate on the floor.
Stephanie gave a cheeky grin at the remark in return, before standing up. "What do you want to do!"
"I don't know," Cassandra called from the kitchen.
"Well think of something," Steph called back before dramatically flopping on the couch.
When Cassandra returned to the living room, she stared down at Stephanie and sighed again. "Yeah, I have no idea what to do with you," She said as she sat on top of Stephanie.
Stephanie grunted. "Well you can get off me for one," Steph exclaimed as she attempted to push Cassandra off.
Cassandra stayed put, not moving an inch. "Well, I am not the one taking up the entire couch." She moved around slightly. "I kinda like this, you are very comfortable you know."
That was enough to make Stephanie groan, but she couldn't help but smile either.
"If you don't get off I'll scream."
Cass blinked before getting off. "Well we wouldn't want that now would we."
Rolling her eyes, Steph threw a pillow at Cassandra only to see Cassandra dodge.
Cassandra laughed lightly. "Don't roll your eyes at me," she said as she threw the pillow back at Stephanie.
For a while Stephanie continuously rolled her eyes. She grabbed another pillow and jumped up on the couch. "You're not my mom," she said while hitting the other with the pillow.
Cassandra grinned, jumping on the couch as well. "I know I'm not. I believe this is a pillow fight," she said as she grabbed another pillow.
"What are you crazy? This is a PILLOW WAR," Stephanie says grabbing another pillow to hit Cassandra with.
"All is fair in pillows and war," Cassandra exclaimed, grabbing as many pillows as she could to throw at Stephanie.
Stephanie quickly ducked and jumped over to place a pillow to the other's face.
Cassandra only laughed before tackling Stephanie to the floor lightly. She straddled her, hitting her face with a pillow while laughing.
The blonde struggled, but began waving her arms. "I surrender, I surrender," she said laughing and face flushed from the movement.
Cassandra got off and offered her a hand. "That was a good war soldier."
"Yeah sure," Stephanie said as she shook her hand, resisting the hit urge to hit her with the pillow in her other hand.
Cassandra looked around before looking back to Stephanie. "So do you want to go outside now?"
"Hell no," Steph replied, throwing a pillow at Cass.
Holy shit guys I'm finally posting my DCU fic hunt fic!!!! Miracles. I wrote gen Bruce+Tim for cr1mson5thestranger. Read and enjoy I guess.
Thinking about it, it isn't actually a surprise when Bruce finds Tim at the gallery opening. The featured exhibit is photography, and if Bruce knows anything about his third son, it's that Tim loves photography. He always has- used to plaster his walls with photos, and he stalked Batman and Robin around with a camera for years. He's good at it, too, something he clearly has passion for, and Bruce lets his public smile fade into a more sincere quirk of lips as he approaches Tim, who is looking intently at a stunning black and white photo of turbulent clouds over Gotham's skyline.
"Tim," Bruce says, and lays a hand on one of Tim's slender shoulders. "Good evening."
Tim turns, and smiles up at Bruce, bright and honest. "Bruce! Hey, I didn't know that you were coming to this event. Lucius didn't say anything, at least."
Bruce shrugs. "It was an impulse."
Tim nods, understanding, and steps away from Bruce a little to gesture at the large print on the wall. "These photos are quite stunning, aren't they?" he asks, turning back to the photo to look at it some more, a fond, reverent look crossing his face. He looks happy, Bruce thinks, and somehow he finds that odd. Then he finds it horrifying that that would be odd, that Tim being happy should be out of the ordinary, and he tries to remember when the last time he saw Tim smile was. Really smile, not his PR face, or whatever twisted thing he put on in front of Dick, or anyone really.
"Bruce?"
Bruce shakes himself, and realizes that he never answered Tim. "They're lovely, Tim," he says, and Tim laughs.
"You're humouring me. It's okay- I know you don't share my passion."
"I just don't have the eye." Bruce does, however, have an eye for people and he watches Tim, still fighting for memories of a time when Tim was happy. Not since before his "death," he thinks, and even then... It has been far too long. "It's been a while," he says, instead of voicing he grim thoughts that have lodged themselves in his brain.
"Yeah," Tim says. "I've been busy, lately. And you were... gone. I guess we never really caught up."
"No, we didn't."
"Well, how have you been? Any difficulties settling back in?"
Bruce lowers his voice a bit, steps closer to Tim so that their conversation might be a little more private. "My public persona is no less of a lie, and I am not a worse actor for my time away. That much, at least, has been easy."
Tim nods, and Bruce continues, "As for our shared nightlife, things have fallen back into place fairly easily. I haven't yet had a chance to reconnect with some allies, most notably Clark, but I expect a visit within the next few weeks."
"Good," Tim says, sounding satisfied. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you."
Bruce nods, one, acknowledging the offer, but he also knows that he won't ask. It's not Tim's job to help him settle back in, not when he surely has his own cases, and his own life to run. He doesn't really know what Tim has been up to- Dick had almost no information when Bruce asked, Damian scoffed derisively, and Babs refused to tell him anything. Which, really, was very unhelpful, but Bruce hadn't actually had a chance to ask Tim what he was up to yet, and now was very much not the time to do it. He follows Tim around as his son drifts from large print to large print, turning that over in his mind. Tim was always private, but at least before Bruce's 'death', subsequent return, and jaunt around the world reviving Batman Inc., he had at least had some idea of who Tim had been friends with, and where he had spent his days. Now, he knew nothing.
This needs to be rectified, Bruce concludes, and starts making plans to disentomb the details of Tim's life from where ever Tim has so thoroughly buried them.
The Monday following the photography showing, Bruce decides to actually show his face at Wayne Enterprises. He strides into the building in a grey suit, a broad smile and a bright wave ready for the secretary in the lobby, Brucie Wayne plastered happily over his own whirling thoughts. He hadn't been able to get his encounter with Tim out of his mind, and had made a point to make some enquiries over the weekend to Alfred. Primarily, about when Tim had moved out of the Manor and where he had been living, about his observations of Tim's relationships with Dick, Damian, and Cass when she was in Gotham, and about his habits and his life as Alfred had seen it. Unfortunately, Alfred hadn't had much to tell him besides the fact that Tim had been withdrawn, in recent months, not liable to share of himself, or even to spend time with the others in the family. Dick, especially, had been avoided, and Tim had spent a great deal of time abroad.
Alfred had been worried, even more than was usual for him, mostly because he hadn't known much about what was going on with Bruce's third son. That had bothered Bruce. Alfred kept close tabs on all of them, and that Tim had succeeded in shutting Alfred out when even Bruce failed at that more times than not didn't bode well.
Bruce makes sure to leave a smile flitting around the corners of his mouth as he steps into the elevator, but it slips off as a familiar voice calls to hold the doors. He jams a thumb against the open door button, and it reopens just in time to let Tim rush through, his tie askew and his hair wind-tousled, a silver travel mug in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
“Oh,” he says, just a little breathless. “Good morning, Bruce. I wasn't expecting to see you.”
“Morning, Tim,” Bruce says, a sliver of curiosity in his voice as he presses the button for the top floor, where the executive offices are. He notes that Tim doesn't reach to press a button for a different floor. “What are you doing here?”
Tim smiles at him, not nearly as real now has it had been on the night of the showing. There is some real pleasure in it, though. “Working, Bruce. I was close to being late, actually, thank you for holding the elevator for me.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “You're never late.”
“Which is why I am so grateful for your intervention. Are you planning to sit in on the meeting?”
“I'm here to see Lucius, actually,” Bruce says. "Checking up on things, you know."
"In that case," Tim says, "you would actually be better off sticking with me. I'm meeting with the Board of Directors today to go over our R&D projects, including the work being done thanks to our liaison with Drake industries, and to discuss the last quarter's progress on said projects, as well as our goals for the next quarter."
Bruce blinks at him. "What do you actually do, Tim? What's your job at Wayne Enterprises?"
Tim smiles, looking very pleased with himself, and says, "I'm currently acting as Junior Deputy Head of R&D for Wayne Enterprises, Chief Liaison Officer to Drake Industries, and Junior CEO and heir to all operations here at WE. It's a lot of responsibility, I know, but I'm good at delegation and have accrued several very competent secretaries in the past couple of months. I like to keep busy."
"Wh-" Bruce stops, and stares at Tim for a minute, then says, "When did that happen?"
"I dropped out of school." Tim blushed. "It was a while ago. I made sure they didn't notify you. I started taking on more responsibility for the company then, and I finished my GED by distance. When you died, it just kind of... took over my life, a bit. I let it- I didn't want to think about anything else, really."
"That makes sense," Bruce says. It doesn't. It doesn't make any sense at all. As far as he had known, Tim had finished high school early and he had been taking college courses, learning business and economics and management. Maybe he had been, but. He. Tim was a high school drop out. "Right. Well- you should have told me. I'm responsible for you, and-"
"You're really not, Bruce," Tim says. "Emancipated, remember?" Then the elevator stops and Tim steps out of it with a wry smile curving his lips. Bruce follows him towards the boardroom. "I'm not a child any more."
Then Bruce watches as Tim (his Tim, his son) slips into Timothy Drake-Wayne, and steps into the boardroom with his business face on, greeting the board members. Bruce makes his own mechanical motions towards saying good morning, and making a few idiot quips, but really the whole thing is ridiculous. Just absurd, that Tim has grown up in only a year, he's not even eighteen but he's a man. He watches Tim carefully as he directs the meeting, not even bothering to conceal his gaze. Tim at work is amazing, masterful, with an easy handle on the older men on the room, and on his own emotions and reactions, and on the information stored within his brain and in the tablet in his hands, that he manipulates with deft, graceful swipes of his fingers. He knows what he's doing. He's not a skinny kid any more, dressed up in suits that fit his body but not his mind, slipping into red and yellow and black, trying to tuck a too-brilliant mind into an awkward personality into lanky limbs that he doesn't fit, can't control.
Bruce is proud of him. Tim has grown into someone amazing, and though Bruce didn't get to see it, doesn't know how or why or when it happened, he's proud. He doesn't know everything, and there are still questions to be answered, but for now, that doesn't matter. He sets a hand on Tim's shoulder when the board members file out of the room, gives Tim an idiot Brucie smile, and hopes that his son sees the sincerity beneath.
Summary: Tim's clothes are going missing left and right, and Tim has a few suspicions about who might be the culprit.
Written for itarobattemon during the DCUFicHunt
Someone's been taking Tim's things, and he doesn't appreciate it one little bit.
It started with a sock at first, the one from his foot. He'd fallen asleep with them on, and woke up to the left one missing. Just gone. He thought it might have slipped off at one point during his sleep, he used to kick the covers when he was younger, and just shed some clothes in his sleep. He checked under the bed, the covers, it was gone. There was no sign of it anywhere, and his room was fairly neat, thanks to Alfred's detail to cleanliness. It was just a sock, but it perplexed him. Socks didn't just magically disappear. Not even at Wayne Manor.
It was just a sock, so Tim wasn't bothered by it too much, but after lunch, he found that one of his favorite jackets had mysteriously vanished into thin air as well, and upon further inspection, his black and red shirt too. Filled with sudden rage, Tim marched over to Jason's room and pounded on the door.
“Jason, I know it was you! Open up!”
Jason opened up the door, scowling at Tim, blocking his view of his room. “Leave me alone. I'm in a bad mood.”
“And you think I'm not? Where is my jacket and shirt? And while I'm at it, my sock?”
“Your...what?”
“Stop playing dumb, it doesn't suit you,” Tim narrowed his eyes.
Jason's scowl hardened, before a hand at his shoulder brought him to heel. “Tim, what's wrong?” Dick peered around Jason, more or less shoving the second Robin back in his room and handling Tim himself.
Tim sighed in relief to himself. “Dick, hey,” he smiled.
Inside his room again, Tim heard Jason snort in disgust. “So Dick's the one he doesn't accuse of crap...”
Tim threw Jason a scowl before looking back at Dick. “Someone's been stealing my stuff, and I was wondering if Jason happened to have some sticky fingers today.”
“-Have- you been stealing stuff today?” Dick asked, turning to look back at the sulky man.
Jason spluttered. Offended. Dick only grinned.
“I think I'll have to take that as a 'no', Tim. Sorry. Have you tried asking Damian?”
“Why didn't you ask him first!” Jason called back, landing on his bed with a thump, his back to them.
“Because I don't really like having a knife thrown at my face...” Tim muttered. Last time it'd been a sharpened pencil, and Damian had 'innocently' said it was an accident, he was actually aiming for the dart board beside the door instead. A likely story.
Dick gave him an apologetic look. “Hey, try not to doubt him so fast. He's a really good kid.”
“To you,” Tim corrected. “We've -just- stopped trying to kill each other.”
Jason snorted on the bed. “Who's the one with bad manners now...”
Tim ignored him again. “I think I'll try Cass next, thanks for the help.”
Cassandra barely spent much time in her room, always choosing to practice either in the Batcave or outside. Today, she was in the yard, soaking in the sun and stretching her muscles. Tim was careful not to startle her. Last time he did, he was almost met with a fist in his face. Mild teasing, she had said with a smile. Hoping to have scared him a little. It scared him -more- than just a little that time. A punch from Cass guaranteed lights out in no time. And a good sized black eye.
“You... lost clothes?” she looked at him in confusion when he asked. “Have you asked....Jason?”
“He said he didn't take them,” he frowned.
“Trust him?”
Tim snorted. “Dick made him talk, so he's innocent this time.”
Cass laughed quietly. “Hand in water?”
Tim shuddered. The last time he had been in Jason's presence, he had dipped his hand into water while he napped.
“That's what I get for not being on guard around him.”
“Just how brothers are,” she smiled. “Try-?”
“He who must not be approached without armor? Yeah. I'm getting to him,” Tim wrinkled his nose.
“Just be nice.”
“I'm always nice.”
Cass gave him a pointed look.
Tim shuffled his feet. “So long as he doesn't throw something sharp at me.”
“You can dodge.” she patted his shoulder. “Good at that.”
Tim laughed dryly at that, before finally making his way back up the second floor to face Damian. He didn't hesitate, hesitating was bad when it came to confronting Damian. The boy could practically smell it on people. Before he could knock, the door opened up, and Damian, with his headphones in, stopped and glared up at him.
“Come to interrogate me about something, Drake?”
“I think you know what I'm going to ask,” Tim crossed his arms, doing his best not to scowl at the ten year old.
“I would, if I happened to be a mind-reader or a psychic, unfortunately for you, I'm neither,” he pulled his headphones out, and glared at Tim. “Well?”
“My shirt, and my jacket. I want them back.”
Damian snorted. “Ask yourself this, Drake, why on Earth would I want your nasty things?”
“I don't know. It's kind of like asking you why you're so intent on getting me out of the picture” Tim shot back.
“That's an easy one, it's simply because I think you're lame.”
“You're such a -pain-,” Tim groaned, rubbing his head.
“And you have issues. But just for the record, I really didn't take your stuff. Perhaps Pennyworth found it necessary to toss them in the trash. Who knows what sort of things you've done with them on.” Damian said, shoving past Tim.
“You-That's none- Damian!”
–
Damian left Tim at the top of the stairs, making his way down the steps of the batcave with Titus' and Alfred's meal. He found the dog and cat lounging in the shadow near the stairs, nestled against each other in what appeared to be a nest of clothes. A leather jacket and the edge of the familiar S-shield peeked out from underneath them. And the remains of a chewed up sock.
Titus lifted his head, his tail wagging as Damian set down their bowls and patted his head.
“So you two are the culprits.” Alfred stretched and curled his way around Damian's knee, purring with affection. He smiled, scratching the cat's ears “Good boys. I've taught you two well.”
Author: Phyrebird
Disclaimer: Characters belong to DC
Verse: We're All Stories in the End
Rating: G
Characters: Red Robin Tim, mostly.
A/N: Written for Rosaliathegreat in this year's DCU fic hunt. At some point, there will be a version 2 of this, as I would like to flesh it out and make it longer.
Tim yawned as he looked around the quiet coffee shop. It was only 6AM, but the shop was slowly filling with people who, like himself, had discovered this corner hideaway held Gotham’s finest coffee. It had been a long night, and Tim had gotten precious little sleep. He would have liked to have slept in, but since Bruce had an important meeting this morning, Tim was holding down the fort at Wayne Enterprises. He smiled at the barista, who rang up his usual, and then moved along the counter to wait until it was done. He was just about to grab his caffeine when someone screamed outside. Coffee momentarily forgotten, Tim sprinted out the door.
“Well, that was fun,” Tim muttered to himself on his way out of Wayne Tower. He tugged at his too-confining collar as he glided down the front steps. After interrupting the mugging at the coffee shop, he had scrambled to make it to work on time, barely managing to clock in without a stern look from one of the board members. From there, it was a matter of copious amounts of paperwork, a board meeting, and signing off on some inventory for Lucius. But now it was lunchtime. Tim nearly purred as he ordered his burger. The cashier gave him an odd look for ordering coffee at noon instead of a coke with his meal, but Tim was determined to have his coffee, even several hours late.
Tim was just grabbing his to-go bag as his pager went off. He quickly called Dick back, wondering why he would have called him so early on a work day. “Timmy? We have a problem at Arkham. I’m going to need some backup.”
Tim sighed. “I have a lot of work to do, Dick, can you ask Jason?” There was a loud crash in the background, enough to make Tim wince just hearing it.
“Yeah uh, I really need that backup, Timmy.” Dick hung up the phone without waiting for a reply.
Tim grabbed his lunch and ran out the door. The cashier tried to call him back, but he was already gone, his forgotten coffee left steaming on the counter.
Late that afternoon, Tim was standing next to a cart on the streetside, trying to buy a cup of coffee. “Look kid, I sell hot dogs, not coffee.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the prices on the board. “Nice try. Says here a cup of coffee is a dollar fifty. I would like. My coffee. Please.” The man shrugged. However, something behind Tim made his eyes widen slightly as he hastily poured the coffee. Tim smiled and handed him a five. “Thank you.” He turned and walked a few paces, smelling the aroma of cheap coffee. He closed his eyes and was about to take a sip just as an ivy vine wrapped itself around his ankles and yanked him away from his precious caffeine.
Tired and bruised, the boys dragged themselves back to the manor late that night. They filled Bruce in on what had happened, and one by one trickled out of the cave. Bruce turned and looked at Tim, who was nearly asleep at his desk, somehow not only sitting up, but still typing away. “Tim? It’s all right you know. Your work is more than done. You should go sleep.” Bruce nudged his shoulder. Tim grumbled about how he hadn’t had his morning coffee. He couldn’t sleep without his morning coffee.
Bruce was about to ask further, but Alfred came in with a tray just then. “Master Bruce, your tea. Master Timothy, your morning coffee.”
Tim’s eyes lit up as he pounced on the small mug and settled into his chair. “Thank you, Alfred...” Tim took a sip of what he would bet anything on earth was the best coffee ever consumed by man.
Bruce turned and raised a brow in Alfred’s direction. “Ah yes. Master Richard had mentioned something about Timothy needing some caffeine before bed. It would appear he was right.” Alfred nodded toward the lightly dozing boy.
Bruce smiled as he carefully gathered Tim up and turned off the cave lights. “Alright, Timmy. Bedtime.”
Note: This is so bad, I am so ashamed, don't judge me. *sobs* EVEN THE CHARACTERIZATION ANNOYS ME.
For the DCU fic hunt. I wrote for taralys.
Warnings: None. Pure fluff.
Characters: Dick, Damian, Tim, Jason, Bruce and Cass. Alfred as well.
Summary: The title. No really.
Bruce walked into the manor only to run face-first into a pile of tinsel.
“What-” He said, spitting some of it onto the floor. In front of him, in the lobby of the manor, was the largest pile of Christmas decorations he had ever seen. There were the stockings for everyone in the manor, the lights that Alfred usually hung on the banisters, and the the ornaments that were usually hanging on the tree were instead perched on coat post. Titus was sitting next to the pile licking his paws, a pair of felt antler ears attached to his head.
Bruce just stared for a few moments, before checking his watch. Because either he had missed a few months or someone had dragged out all the Christmas decorations on the hottest day in July.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, walking in. He had on an apron with Santa’s likeness on it over his normal attire. In his hand, was a cup of eggnog. “I see you’re home a few days earlier then planned.
As a rule, the Batvoice only was used in two situations: in the cave or when he had his mask on. This, however, was a special case. “Alfred, why are all the Christmas decorations out?”
Alfred walked over to Bruce, pulling him back on his feet. He pushed the mug of eggnog into Bruce’s hands. “You should ask your children, sir. They’re in the kitchen making cookies. Yes, I do have the fire department on speed dial, just in case.” He walked off, taking care to avoid the mistletoe over the doorway.
Bruce looked down at his cup of eggnog, and stared at the bat-shaped sprinkles, floating near the center of the cup. He sighed, downing the liquid in one gulp.
This was going to be interesting.
“I knew we should have gotten Stephanie’s help,” Tim said, looking down at the batch of burned Christmas cookies. The rest of his siblings were around him, most of them covered in flour and dough. Jason grabbed one of ones from the center, a ninja with a candy cane as a sword, and took a bite.
“Eh, that aren’t that bad. I’ve had worse.”
“That’s because you have no sense of taste, Todd.” Damian said, scrunching up his nose. “Father would be ashamed of our efforts.”
“More confused.” All of the Wayne children paused, turning towards the door frame where Bruce was watching. “Explain.” Dick’s eyes grew wide. Damian took cover, along with Tim. Cas waved and smiled, before licking some frosting off her fingers.
“Talk to the eldest,” Jason said, snagging another cookie. “This was his plot.”
“Dick.”
Dick walked forward, wiping off some of the flour onto his jeans. “It’s just, well, I realized we didn’t do Christmas last year. Cus you were lost in time, Jason was in jail, Tim was crazy, Cass was away and Damian didn’t understand the concept.”
Damian scowled. “I know what Christmas is, Grayson.”
“You wouldn’t know the Christmas spirit if it hit you in the face and challenged you to a duel,” Tim said. Damian pouted, beginning to open his mouth.
“Boys-” Bruce said, cutting in. “So this was an effort to fix that?”
“Yes,” Cass said. “Friends coming over for dinner tomorrow. It’s a surprise for you.” Dick pointed to Cass, giving two thumbs up. Bruce took a step forward, looking down at the burned batch of cookies. There was a long beat of silence.
“Someone get Alfred to help you make a new batch. I’ll cancel my appointments.” There was a slight cheer from the crowd, and Bruce tried to keep a smile off his lips.
After the fact, Damian was almost positive that Grayson hadn't meant to taunt him. The man not only had a sentimental weakness for him, but an almost disturbing lack of innate cruelness, as well. It didn't seem like him to torment Damian on purpose. But the point was, he did it, anyway.
It was Damian's sixteenth birthday, and by that time, he'd already cemented his reputation as the most insufferable teenager to ever live in the Manor; and this was a place that once housed a teenage Bruce Wayne. He didn't get along with anybody except for Titus, Batcow, and Alfred - that was, Alfred the cat, not the butler. He'd even managed to alienate Pennyworth, and that was no small feat.
Damian felt as if it wasn't his fault. It was the world against him, not the other way around. He couldn't help it if everyone thought his clever witticisms were hurtful. He couldn't help that his school's headmaster administered arbitrary qualifiers like "doesn't play well with others" to his grades. He couldn't help that girls suddenly bewildered him and other boys made him feel … agitated. Or that his body was doing strange things that made him furious and eager to pick fights with everyone, all the time. That made him growl and snarl whenever the people around him tried to put him into fancy suits – or worse, casual wear - and drag him out into the sun. Or, in the most egregious display of bad judgement, tried to get him to talk about his feelings. Such nonsense. His Father was a smart and powerful man, and he only talked about his feelings every three years or so.
Damian didn't want these feelings, so he would not discuss them, period.
And Grayson. Grayson was the worst. He'd always try to inflict his good mood on him. He'd never bite whenever Damian tried to get a decent fight off the ground, which was a problem, because fighting was his primary way to communicate with people. (And he did miss communicating with Grayson to some degree.) He'd always act as if he liked being around Damian - as if scaling the same stupid skyscraper in the same stupid city with him for the millionth time was so exciting. As if playing their old Swordwalkers characters wasn't totally boring to him (Grayson had never really cared for, or fully grasped video games; it seemed like he was born to be out under the sun). Damian secretly believed that all that niceness had to be deceptive, and he never stopped needling him to reveal it. That way, he'd feel less like an idiot when his former Batman eventually got tired of hanging out with a pouty teenage boy. But Grayson wasn't only persistent, he was also quite convincing. However, that meant nothing. He had a background in show business.
Anyway. It was his sixteenth birthday, and Grayson couldn't come. He was on an undercover recon mission, posing as a playboy on some private island at the other end of the world. Of course, Damian had let him know, repeatedly, that it didn't matter, that it wasn't important, and who cared, anyway. Even though a tiny part of him had hoped he'd make it back in time; but that part of him was dumb, and he wished not to engage it.
Grayson couldn't come … but he sent him an e-mail.
Damian's birthday was nearly over when he got to read it, at 23:58 in his room, when the celebrations had mercifully ended. Pennyworth had insisted a boy do something on his sixteenth, and somehow he and Father had convinced their fellow crimefighters to come, even though there was not a single person there that Damian hadn't insulted at some point. They had vegetarian hot dogs on the terrace, and Alfred had prepared him a luxurious ice cream cake that made him feel undeserving and ungrateful on sight, and his Father had given him a very personal gift (Martha Wayne's old easel and sketchbooks) that made him unsure how to react. He also received another motorbike, and everyone insisted he sit on it while they took pictures of him frowning with his arms crossed. He was uncomfortable in his crisp shirt, uncomfortable in his body, he kept thinking he had sweat stains all over, and that everyone was noticing that one pimple he had on his chin, and how he had so much more hair than he used to, and in odd places. He spent the evening in prolonged terror that one of the Batgirls would ask him to dance, or that Father would want him to say a few words, a sublime fear that was so much worse than going head-to-head with Killer Croc. And the only thing he could think of to combat all that was to be extra-sarcastic to everyone, which went over about as well as expected.
He wondered if it would've been better or worse with Grayson there. Probably worse. But his absence was still … felt.
And then, Father had said there'd be no patrol that night, which was about the only thing in the world that Damian did like to do. He cancelled patrol on his birthday. Another brief, harsh growling match later, he found himself alone in his room.
Well. He wasn't going to listen to him. He was sixteen now, a grown man. He'd sneak downstairs, put on his Robin suit, and ninja out. All Robins in existence had cultivated the habit of getting away under Batman's nose, and Damian had perfected it. He was the best Robin there ever was, and who cared that he'd been voted "least cute Robin" in that stupid poll in that teen magazine he didn't read. No-one, that's who.
All he wanted to do was check his mail real quick before he headed out. That's when he saw the little blinking envelope with Grayson's name next to it. He clicked it, frowing.
Hey birthday boy!
Damian rolled his eyes.
You rolled your eyes at that, didn't you. Come on, you knew it was coming. Anyway, really sorry I missed out on your big day. I need some more time to wrap things up over here. But hey, I already got you a gift! It's so cool it'll make you have a facial expression, I swear. Let's catch up when I'm back, okay? See you then.
Dick.
He stared at the short message, sitting cross-legged on his bed. It was as if he could almost hear Grayson's warm, genuine voice pour through the screen, and it … he didn't want it to make him feel at ease and okay with the world, but it did –
And then, he read the PS.
PS: Here's some proof of how tough I have it. Look and weep!
Damian clicked on the picture attached, and then he saw, he, he saw that, and time seemed to stop.
He stared at it. His mouth ran dry. His throat clogged up. His face grew hot. His first instinct was to slam the laptop shut or click the image away immediately, as if he was being caught looking at something … uncouth. But that was nonsense. It was just a stupid picture of –
It was just a stupid picture of Grayson, lying shirtless on the beach, waving dorkily to the camera. His raven-black hair looked messy and wet, as if he'd just emerged from the water; Damian almost thought he could see the salt crystals glinting in it. Grayson had been there for a week now, and his skin looked golden, evenly tanned … too evenly, really. Did … did he tan himself naked, or …
Damian's adam's apple rolled in his throat as he swallowed. His eyes darted toward the door, as if something disastrous would happen if Alfred or Father came in to catch him looking at Grayson's silly beach photo, which was ridiculous –
… he was looking straight at the camera, eyes squinting against the sunlight, but still mischievous, somehow. His smile seemed to radiate through the screen. Damian's gaze was somehow magically drawn further down, and he found to his devastation that his older friend's nipples were almost more mesmerizing than his blue eyes were. They looked hard, probably because he'd gotten all wet, and now a light breeze was rolling … rolling over …
Damian caught himself absent-mindedly running his hand over his own chest, and stopped abruptly. His throat indeed felt very dry. He reached for the water bottle on his nightstand without taking his eyes off the picture. Then he forgot to drink.
Grayson was in a dark blue speedo. Why was he in a speedo. Why didn't he wear Bermuda shorts, like a normal person. It was a tight speedo, too. Now Damian was practically forced to look at his scarred, powerful thighs and his … powerful bulge, and wonder, and wonder …
He swallowed again, checked the door one more time – which was ludicrous, since he always locked himself in, anyway – and then his face seemed to burst into flame when he clicked 'Save'.
He felt the sudden need to reach down and adjust his … himself in his pants. He rubbed his hand down the front. Once. Twice. He heard a hoarse, stifled noise and realized it was coming from him. He glanced sideways at Alfred, sleeping peacefully at the foot of his bed, and winced, suddenly feeling embarrassed in front of the cat.
He took his hand out of his lap. No. He wouldn't. He wouldn't do that. He wasn't going to deface the precious memory of their partnership – one of the most precious memories he had – by … by … no.
He clicked 'X', and Grayson and his perky nipples and his speedo bulge disappeared. The heat in Damian's loins lingered. His heart was fluttering. He stared at his desktop, unsure what to do.
Right. Patrol.
That was a good idea. Nothing better than delivering tough justice to some of Gotham's darkest corners to wash the shame away. And if he got in trouble with Father for it later, even better. He probably deserved it on some level. It was something he knew and expected. Unlike … unlike this.
Damian got up from the bed, prompting the cat to look up in interest. He stood in the middle of the room and did a few stretching exercises - to prepare, and to make his blood run into any other direction than where it currently was. He punched the air, performed a few high kicks–
-rolled back onto his bed, and opened the picture again. He looked at it with wide eyes, head tilted to one side. He'd been taught to study pictoral evidence in excessive detail from an early age, and right now, that habit proved devastating.
It awoke something in him.
He closed the window again. Took the file, put it in the trash bin. Closed his laptop.
It was crazy; he'd worked alongside the man, which meant he'd seen him in various states of undress. But … but that had been when he was ten, before the onset of puberty, and now it was … it was all different. He tried to exorcize it, tried to remember Grayson as Batman on all fours in that alley, retching, vomiting out all that poison after their encounter with Tophana The Poison Queen. But not even that gross image made the salt water glistening on his naked chest in that photo less appealing. Come to think of it, even the idea of him on all fours in his Batsuit seemed vaguely erotic –
No. No no no.
Damian felt a warm swirl in the pit of his stomach, and considered looking at some pornography online (it wasn't as if he was a stranger to that) to … diverge his interest, but he knew it would not be the same. Because that, that photo, it was for him, and Grayson's smile was for him because it was his birthday, and the thought made his thighs shiver as if someone was blowing cold air across them. And he knew that, even if he did look at other naked men now, he'd just see Grayson's smile superimposed over all of them, and somehow, that felt even sleazier.
After some consideration, he opened his laptop again, and fished the file out of the trash.
Needless to say, he didn't sneak out and got himself into trouble that night.
The last thing he did was gently shooing the cat out of the room before he locked it, lied down with his belly pressed to his bed, and opened the picture file again.
The next morning found him quiet and sullen. He'd been up for most of the night with his … laptop. But since he was quiet and sullen all the time, nobody grew suspicious. For what it was worth, last night's … repeated debasement had made him humble, somehow. He thanked Alfred for the cake, and complimented him for his breakfast grapefruit until it earned him a puzzled, but genuine smile. He sent out a few messages thanking people for attending his party. He even socialized with Father a little. He mumbled something to him about Grayson writing in for his birthday, which prompted a grunt of approval. Damian didn't tell him about the photo. He wouldn't tell anybody about it. He wouldn't show it to anyone, either. It was his.
"You should write him back," Father suggested, shoving files back and forth on his animated screen. "Dick. He likes that sort of thing."
"Tt, of course I will," Damian scoffed, offended, "That's a matter of courtesy, I'm not some - "
Then he suddenly became very embarrassed, and had to excuse himself.
In the afternoon, he sat down to type a reply.
Grayson
Message received and noted. Thanks. Your absence at my party was sorely felt.
Damian.
PS: Send more pics
He blinked at the screen, unable to fathom he just wrote that. He shook his head. Seeing Grayson's name in writing alone made his face heat up, and coaxing him into sending more beach pictures seemed downright unsavory, considering what he'd done with the one he'd received. Eventually, he deleted everything after "Thanks" except for his name, and sent the truncated message. It had to suffice, and it sounded more like him, anyway
Then, he went down into the Cave and pummeled a punching bag 'til it fell off the ceiling.
In the following days and nights, Grayson's photo completely ruined Damian's life, in a way that also made it infinitely better, somehow. It was very vexing.
On one hand, his sleeping schedule went even more lopsided than it was anyway, and he found it harder to concentrate - at school, on patrol, pretty much everywhere. On the other hand, he now had something else to look forward to other than walking Titus, and being Robin. Opening his laptop every night, looking at that picture, and letting his … mind wander, and then his fast, busy hands, too. Whenever he woke up from a night like that, he found his mood considerably brightened. And the shame he felt over it made him more compliant and agreeable, which miraculously served to improve his relationships.
Facing Grayson in person upon his return seemed more and more taxing, though.
It had gotten to the point where Damian had started spinning whole stories around that picture. It wasn't just a photo now, it was the starting point for multiple adventures he and Grayson could have (even though they, uh, all ended more or less the same way). Sometimes, Grayson would be an alluring art thief and Damian was the hotshot Interpol agent chasing him, and it was all very dangerous and exotic. Sometimes, Damian was the dashing, daredevil bush pilot and Grayson the mysterious island beauty with the dark past. Or they'd be Batman and Robin again, saving the world, then making passionate love on the beach after saving the world. Most of the time, however, he imagined them just being them, Dick and Damian, and that was the best, really. He imagined himself rolling through the sand with him, pressed against Grayson's warm, oiled-up skin, imagined how Grayson's chest would rumble as he laughed at something really witty and hilarious Damian just said that he'd think of later. He imagined him somehow not having a problem with his age, and touching him in … all the places, inviting him to do the same in his warm, friendly voice.
It was more than just lust. Damian was sixteen, he knew lust, and you didn't go through all these scenarios for just lust. And that was a problem.
It made him very nervous when he went to the airport with Pennyworth to welcome him back. He did it because he had nothing better to do, of course. And because Father had sent him, after Damian had asked him seven times who was going to pick up Grayson.
"I don't think he needs someone to pick him up," Father had said, eyebrow raised. "Dick is probably very tired. And he knows perfectly well where his apartment is."
"Okay, FINE, I'll do it!" Damian had snapped, and stomped out to tell Pennyworth to get the car ready.
Grayson did look tired when he emerged from the plane, fully dressed. (Damian wasn't sure why he'd expected him to come out in his tight speedos. It made no sense.) But his tanned face lit up when he saw Damian waiting outside, and he raised an arm to wave at him.
"Alfred!" He called out.
Damian frowned. Right. Pennyworth was there, too. Well, it was probably polite to greet the elders first -
His heart skipped a beat when he heard Grayson exclaim: "Damian!"
At least, Grayson went to hug Damian first. He dropped his bags, dove in, swooped him right into his arms, and Damian realized a beat too late how awkward the hugging was, now. He froze in in his arms like a stalagtite. His limbs and torso suddenly seemed utterly incompatible with each other and refused service. He felt very hot. Grayson's hair was very nice-smelling.
"Whoa," Grayson said, once he was done, still holding on to him by his shoulders, "I think that was our stiffest one yet."
Damian felt red swirling over his face. "Excuse me," he muttered. His brain had shut down when Grayson said "stiff", and he hadn't processed that whole sentence.
"The hug. You somehow gained a whole new level of stiffness while I was gone." His older friend smiled at him. Damian found it hard to look at it, like you couldn't look directly at the sun without going blind. Also, he wasn't sure if there was some sort of universal tell that said, 'I've been masturbating furiously to thoughts of you' that Grayson was maybe familiar with, being a detective and experienced in intercourse and all that.
Also, he wished Grayson would stop saying "stiff" all the time.
"Well." The acrobat mercifully, tragically let go of him with a soft, affectionate pat on the shoulders. "I'm gonna have to get you used to it again. Or," he tilted his head to one side with an inquiring look on his face. "I could, you know, dial it down for a while?" His smile turned a little less bright. "You're sixteen now, you're probably not really into hugs by older people. I mean, even less than you were, anyway. I get that."
Damian was busy wincing at "older people", so precious seconds went by before he realized he was being asked a question. "Oh. That. Well, I have no strong feelings either way. Keep doing it. OR don't. I don't know. It's nothing to me," he recited awkwardly.
It seemed like a string of disconnected words to him, but Grayson seemed content, anyway. He bit his lip, a twinkle in his eyes. He made a gesture as if he wanted to drag him into his arms again, but then he took one look at Damian's frozen expression, and opted to shake his head instead, grinning. "Man, I've missed you."
Damian wanted to say, "Me too", but he didn't, so he simply stood there, like an idiot.
"My, I think this calls for a picture!"
Damian flinched at the word, and spun around to glare at Pennyworth, who was fumbling with his old-fashioned camera.
"Master Richard, smile! Master Damian … do what you usually do."
Damian managed to squeeze out a "N-uh", but then his breath got caught in his throat when Grayson threw his arm around his shoulders. His cheek was pressed against Damian's when he smushed their faces together. The teenager moaned, and then squirmed, though probably not for the reason Grayson suspected when he mumbled, "Sorry 'bout that. One last time, for Alfred?"
"Nhn," Damian responded, then tried not to close his eyes, blushing furiously as he inhaled Grayson's fragrance again. He'd come out looking unfortunate in this picture. But he looked unfortunate in all his pictures age 12-16, so it probably wouldn't get noticed.
"Man, I can't wait to hang out with you again," Grayson chirped, lips moving against Damian's skin.
"Ha-ah," the boy made, struggling to stave off the heat pooling in his underpants.
"Cheers!" Pennyworth called out, and then the flash exploded.
---
It was two weeks after Damian's eighteenth birthday when Dick received a text message from him.
Grayson. I require you for a very important task. Come as soon as possible. Damian.
Dick wondered what it was while he took the elevator up to Damian's luxurious suite. "A very important task" – in Damian's case, that could mean a number of things, from "help me battle these 28 hired killers that I've found on my balcony" to "come admire my new stereo". You never really knew if there was a life-threatening event going on, or if he simply wanted to hang out.
Which, if Dick was perfectly honest, was one of the things that made it so exciting to be friends with him.
To be prepared, he had packed his escrima sticks, a gaggle of smoke bombs, and a sixer with Italian lemonade.
The elevator doors opened directly into the apartment with a melodic "Ping", and then Dick was faced with Damian hanging upside-down in his doorframe, doing crunches.
So. No contract killers, then. Good to know.
"I appreciate your timely arrival," the teenager drawled, not the slightest bit out of breath, while he continued to finish his set. His t-shirt had rolled up, revealing the hard, perfectly toned landscape of his upper body. He seemed to have been at it for a while, yet there wasn't a drop of sweat on him. Dick forced himself to only look for a second; the sight kick-started a couple of thoughts and mental images he'd sworn to himself not to have.
He felt his ears grow hot, and quickly distracted himself by patting Titus, who'd bounced over to greet him, running excited circles around his legs.
"Good boy. Who's my big boy?"
"…excuse me?"
Dick looked up again, flustered. "I was talking to, uh. To the dog."
"Oh." Damian dangled in mid-air for a moment, then continued his exercise. "Of course."
Well, that had been mildly embarrassing. Dick quickly fished for another topic.
"What's the occasion?" He wondered, while resisting the temptation to press the ice-cold lemonade cans against Damian's naked skin to see him flinch. "I mean, not for you showing off, there's always occasion for that, obviously. I mean, me being here."
Damian shot him a quick, upside-down look. Dick could see his sharp, ruthless eyes grow a little softer when they met his. This only ever seemed to happen with the pets, and - him. It had always been like that, and he always … he'd always liked it.
"I have a request –"
The boy swung around in mid-air, then landed squarely on his bare, deadly feet in front of Dick. The landing was a little heavy; Damian was still as nimble as a cat, but he'd be approaching Bruce-levels of bulkiness in no time. Now that he was slowly shedding the stilted awkwardness of his teen years, he was turning into someone so lethal and precise he didn't only freak out Gotham's criminals. He freaked people out across the board. Dick, not so much. Dick was awkward around him for … other reasons.
Anyway –
"Always happy to help," he said. "Need someone to show you how to heat milk again?"
Damian scowled. Dick grinned at him.
Since Damian had moved out of the Manor, it had turned out that, while he knew how to defuse a bomb with his feet while slapping around a dozen attackers, he was regularly baffled by everyday household appliances. Dick himself wasn't really that much better at it, but he liked to dangle it over his head, anyway.
Dick chuckled. "Hey, it's a possibility. Or else you wouldn't be making that face."
"It's not that," Damian snapped. Now that he was growing older, his voice had gone from bratty to stern, which … well, it really made you listen. Still as bossy as ever, however. "And honestly, I would call Pennyworth for that. You're hopeless with dairy products, Grayson, unless they're in a cereal bowl."
Dick scrunched up his nose. Eh. Touché.
Damian took a deep breath, which was odd, because his exercise seemed to have barely affected him. "Grayson," he then said. "Are you familiar with the romantic convention of sending someone an … alluring photo of yourself to attract them as a lover?"
Dick cocked an eyebrow. "Am I," he said dryly. It wasn't something he did on purpose, but … he wasn't exactly camera-shy. Pretty much all of his exes still had a cheesecake picture of him lying around somewhere. No matter how dramatic the break-up had been, none of those had ever been returned to him.
He was a little curious now. He'd never heard Damian utter the word "lover" before without looking like he wanted to throw up into a bucket.
"Looking to make a love connection…?" He asked.
He wasn't sure why that felt so awkward, or why that didn't sound as quippy as the thought it would. Two years ago, he would've gently mocked his younger friend to the point of receiving death threats for it, but now it felt … with the staring at his abs and into his steely blue eyes, it … it was …
Damian tried to play it off as no big deal, which was a surefire sign that he was mega-embarrassed to talk about it. "There's … someone that I wish to send a token of my affection to. Something personal. I'm eighteen now, I have my own place, I figured I might as well. I have people that are interested, you know."
That last part came out defensive, almost pouty, accompanied by a sneaky look. Dick felt warmth wash over his face. "I don't doubt that," he said.
His gaze was drawn to Damian's collarbone when the boy's chest seemed to heave briefly at that. But when he looked back at his face, it was as stubbornly aloof as always. He sounded very formal when he said, "Grayson, I have asked you here because I trust your expertise and your discretion, and I want you to take some … alluring pictures of me." He only stumbled the slightest bit over the last part.
"I assume you understand why I didn't ask Pennyworth or Father to do it," he then added briskly, when Dick simply stared at him, unsure if he wanted to laugh, or "aaaw".
"Your Father is really good at posing for sexy photoshoots, though," Dick suddenly felt compelled to point out, before he realized what a terrible idea that was, "Have you seen his spread in -"
"NO!" Damian screwed his eyes shut, as if to erase that image from his mind, "And I don't want … nobody needs to … let's not talk about that now."
Dick bit his lip. "Right. Sorry." And then, "Why didn't you ask Tim? I mean, he's the photographer in the family."
Damian scoffed at that. "Sure, I'll let Drake take seductive pictures of me," he sneered, "And then he goes and photoshops rubber chickens into all of them."
"Well. You did try to murder him once…"
Damian's face darkened. "Will you ever let that go? I made my peace with him!"
He had. Damian actually had worked pretty hard to repair most of his relationships from between when he'd been a pocket-sized assassin, and the world's most sullen teenager. Sometime around the time he'd turned sixteen, he'd somehow mellowed out a little. Dick wasn't sure what it had been, but he liked to think all those play dates he'd dragged him on had played a part in it.
"Will you do it?" Damian's voice was as brassy as ever, but there was a hint of vulnerability to it. "Grayson…?"
"We're …" Dick cleared his throat. "We're not talking nude pictures right now, are we? 'cause that would be –"
His face grew even darker. He looked at Dick earnestly, and with a genuine question in his eyes, and Dick suddenly realized that Damian didn't really have anyone to talk about this stuff with. He had to step in here before the boy started to message pictures of his penis to people due to terrible misinformation.
"Not before the first date," he determined. "All right. I'll do it."
"Good."
Damian looked satisfied at first. Then nervous. Then his voice sounded almost shy when he announced, "I'll go put on my outfit now. I already selected one. You wait here."
"Yeah, I wasn't gonna –"
Damian strode off to his bedroom, leaving Dick alone with his unfinished sentence.
"- come and watch you change," he mumbled to nobody.
It was kinda ridiculous. Way back when, he'd been around Damian changing dozens of times, and he'd never thought twice about it, and he surely shouldn't be thinking about it n-
Dick decided to step out on the balcony to get some air, and also empty a can of lemonade in record time.
He took out his cellphone to fumble around with the camera settings. He was much better at having his picture taken than actually take them, so hopefully Damian's standards weren't too high. Or the standards of the person he was attempting to woo. He wondered who it was.
It took Damian a while to change. Dick wasn't sure what "appealing" meant in Damian's world, and he was kinda nervously anticipating it; with the time he took, he probably wouldn't be coming out in his swimming trunks, though. Which was an odd thought, anyway. Why would he come out in swimming trunks -
He was distracted from his pointless speculating when he heard his tense voice behind him.
"Here. I'm ready."
Dick turned around, and couldn't keep a quiet "Whoa," from escaping him.
Damian scoffed, but it was obvious that his reaction was pleasing him. "Oh," he drawled extra-casually, looking down at his 8000-Dollar Armani suit that made him look like the world's most banging Arab-Chinese spy, "That old thing?"
"Shut up," Dick said almost reflexively, gazing at him.
Damian's eyes narrowed, which didn't make him look less attractive in the slightest. "Don't say that to me."
Seconds went by; Dick wasn't sure how many. And he didn't snap out of it until Damian muttered, "Grayson. You can't say that to me, but please say something."
"Right! Yeah." Dick realized he was gaping at him, and tried to remedy that by poking his finger in his direction. "That - Yep, that'll work," he heard himself squawk. His eyes wandered to the red rose that Damian was holding. The teenager became flustered. "That's … it's nothing. I decided I wanted a prop. It was either this or a knife. Do you think I should hold the knife instead? I'm not sure that's the message I want to get across –"
"You're perfect," Dick said hoarsely, trying to sound like a photographer, but he wasn't a photographer, and it didn't come out that way.
"Hn." Damian gave him that fleeting, covert look again, before stalking over to the balustrade. By this point, they'd acquired an audience consisting of Titus and Alfred, both sitting attentively by the door watching the proceedings.
"I was thinking," Damian said, a little stiffly, "I'd stand here, with the city as backdrop, and then I'd maybe …" He trailed off and cast Dick a helpless look, blood pulsing in his cheeks. "Grayson, you're the director! Give me directions!"
Dick blinked at him. Damian bit his full lower lip. "I know you're good at posing, because … because I lived at Wayne Manor and I'm not blind, and the whole place is plastered with your face," he added morosely.
Well. That seemed like an exaggeration. But he had a point; Dick was good at posing, definitely better than Damian, who seemed frankly horrible at it. He looked smoking hot in his suit, but he stood there wide-legged and with clenched fists, as if he was about to pummel someone's face in. The rose was already drooping between his steely fingers.
Dick couldn't let him introduce himself to a crush like that.
He sighed. "Okay, so. This is for someone you like, right?"
There was an odd pause before Damian mumbled, "…Yes."
Dick raised his camera phone. "Good. So … d'you wanna try maybe smiling or … not standing in your battle stance?"
Damian looked down at his legs. "Oh." He tried to stand more naturally, with decent success. Dick could see his strong, toned arms straining in the sleek black suit when he put them on the balustrade. He fumbled around with the rose for a while, before he eventually lost patience, and unceremoniously tossed it off the balcony, which made Dick laugh.
And Damian looked up and smiled.
…
…
…
The problem was, Damian looked mean when he smiled. He probably didn't intend to, but he simply did. Dick found the shark-like quality of that smile kinda heartwarming, but for what he was planning, maybe something … softer would be better.
"Hey," he called out to him, face behind the lens. "Try something for me. Picture the person you like. Can you picture them?"
The look Damian gave him would have melted steel. His "Yes," sounded a little strained when he murmured it through his teeth.
Wow. He really liked that person.
Dick swallowed, hard. "All. All right. Now … imagine you're kissing them. Don't make a kissy face, trust me, you'll always come out looking like a duck, but … just … imagine it?"
He totally expected Damian to protest that suggestion, to say it was too intimate or that Dick should stop embarrassing him, or something … but he seemed very compliant, very eager to make this work. He nodded, lowered his gaze and licked his lips, maybe in concentration, or maybe because of what he was picturing.
When he looked up again, it almost knocked the air out of Dick's lungs. He didn't look … softer, in the slightest. He looked even harsher, if that was possible. But the pure, unambiguous notion of want on his face was so raw it nearly made Dick drop his phone. It suddenly occurred to him how passionate both Bruce and Talia were, and that all their passion must have went into this … this child, who wasn't a child anymore. Dick felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand up … and then his nipples, too, to make things even weirder.
If this was anywhere near Damian's bedroom stare … holy intensity.
"Is this good," Damian growled, voice suddenly seeming much deeper to Dick than before, "How am I doing."
"Great." Dick sounded flimsy. "You're uh … coming on pretty strong."
"Is that good or bad," the boy inquired, not once looking away.
"It depends," Dick said truthfully. "That person you like, do they scare easily?"
Damian's lips parted in a smile, and combined with the look he was giving him, his wicked grin turned almost weaponized.
"No," he said quietly. "I wouldn't like them if they did."
And that was it. Those eyes. That smile. Dick was no photographer, but that was the perfect shot. He hit the button.
"Done."
"Oh." Once he heard that, Damian's face went back to its usual frowning state, and the spell was broken. Barely. "Let me see."
He came over, and there was a strange moment of reluctance before he leaned in to look at Dick's phone. Dick noticed that they were pretty much the same height; Damian could've put his chin on his shoulder if he'd wanted to. The suit smelled fresh and clean and exquisite. Damian's body felt lean and hard against his. His eyes seemed indefinitely blue beneath thick dark lashes
"Hmmm," the boy made, appraising his portrait. Dick felt himself staring at his lips while he let out another soft hum. "Grayson, do you think I should’ve shown more skin? Be honest."
Dick squinted down at his phone. The picture was incredible. For a picture. Dick found it hard to make eye contact with it; it was like having sex with Damian through a tiny screen, which felt … wrong …
He had the sudden, irrational desire to punch whichever person was going to receive this.
"I, er."
"Don't answer that." Damian gave him a soft pat on the shoulder, then started loosening the fly around his neck. "I've made up my mind. Let's move it to the couch. I hope you didn't make any plans. We'll take a few shirtless ones, too."
"Ha-ah," Dick made, grabbing another can of lemonade and pressing it to his forehead to cool at least one portion of his body, while he watched Damian unbuttoning, delicious copper skin becoming visible underneath crisp white. He probably didn't intend to torment Dick, but the point was, he did it, anyway.
This'd be one long, hot afternoon.
Three days later, Dick still hadn't recovered from that whole experience. His knees still started shaking when he thought back on it. Hovering over Damian to snap shirtless photos of him on the couch had probably done something long-lasting to his psyche. He'd imagined putting his lips on his sun-kissed, dark skin so hard, he could basically still taste it on his tongue, even though that touch had never happened. Well, at least the photos had turned out excellent. Dick had sent them to Damian and then deleted them from his phone as if they were on fire. Because if he didn't, he -
He figured it didn't matter. Damian would send that picture to whomever he wanted to impress, and they'd probably go out, and then that person would be sucking on Damian's skin, and then Dick would come into their house at night and put gum in their hair. By which he meant, of course, he'd be a buddy and congratulate Damian on his romantic success and do nothing like that. 'cause that's what a good buddy did.
By the end of the third day, however, he found the blinking envelope in his inbox, with Damian's name next to it, and a bunch of pictures attached.
Dick was puzzled for a second. Then, he was glad he was already on his bed with his laptop, because his legs turned to jelly when it all finally, beautifully came together in his head. He swallowed once, twice, before he opened the message. There was something about the wording that seemed familiar to him, but he wasn't sure why.
Come on. You knew it was coming.
Damian.
PS: I needed to make sure they would be to your liking. Now I am.
Dick's finger hovered over the mouse for a heartbeat. Then, a nervous smile spread across his face when he took another breath, and clicked 'Open'.
Damian goes to his partner for a problem he can't solve.
A/N: This was written for the 2013 DCU Fic Hunt, specifically for hey-azzbutt. I hope you liked it. Also there could be dickdamian if you squint really, really hard. :)
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If there's one thing that Damian dislikes about patrolling, anything at all, it was how easily his lips got chapped. He considers himself very auspicious, but how can he go through each night perfectly when he's constantly bothered by the way his lips peel and bleed on cold nights like these? He's never had difficulty back when he lived with his mother, but ever since he chose to live with his father, it's been happening every night.
And after a year of taking on the Robin mantle, he's finally given up dealing with it.
"Grayson." Damian looks over to his partner, who was currently drying his hair after their ritualistic shower after patrol. He doesn't bother with making sure if Dick acknowledges him or not. "I require advice on a certain…matter."
The air next to Damian shifts as the older man sits next to him, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder with a sigh.
"You know, I thought Bruce would have been the one to educate you on this, but look, if you want, I'll be happy to answer any questions you have."
Although that was a strange way for him to phrase it, considering the amount of asinine things that come out of Dick's mouth, Damian didn't think much of it. "How does one prevent their mouth from...?" He motions to his cracked lips. And then he waits.…
And then he's swiveling his head to see what could be taking Grayson this long to answer, coming to the sight of Dick looking shocked and a little bit relieved. Damian scrunches his face, feeling the cracked skin on his lips pull, making him wince at the uncomfortable feeling. He licks at them and sighs at the rough feel on his tongue before glaring up at Dick, impatience wearing thin. It's enough to get Dick to focus, and reach back to rub at his neck sheepishly.
"Ah, sorry, thought you were going to ask something entirely different."
The preteen blinks, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. "Chapped lips, Grayson," Damian states blandly, "what do I need to do?" He feels Dick zero in on his mouth and gets uneasy at the intensity of the look. "You need to exfoliate them first…gently, and not for long either. Maybe half a minute. What do you use to moisturize?"
Damian looks down, then reaches over to open a compartment from his belt, pulling out three things before handing them over to Dick. He frowns when the man clicks his tongue lightly.
"Chapstick doesn't work. You gotta start using stuff that has actual moisturizing ingredients. What I do, normally, is just use vaseline after holding a moist towel over my mouth. That tends to work wonders." Dick taps his finger on the corner of Damian's mouth, "just do all of that and the cracks will heal in time too."
The boy nods thoughtfully, mentally taking all of that down. Unconsciously, he starts to bite down, peeling the flaying skin out of habit.
"Nu-uh, Damian," Dick shakes his head, pointedly looking at him, "no picking at your lips, it'll only get worse."
It's not like he can stop after how many months of doing it. "You do not think I don't know that?" Nonetheless, he pauses, huffing while Dick gets up to riffle through his cubby in the Batcave's 'locker room'.
He turns to toss it over to Damian, the younger of the two creating a fist around the object before bringing his hand down to examine it. "Beeswax?"
"It's even better than vaseline." Damian hums thoughtfully, before standing up and heading for the direction of the stairs. As he passes Dick, he looks up passively before allowing a corner of his mouth to lift up. "Thank you," he says before leaving Dick to stand there dazed and to dry off completely to change.
Summary: Damian lets Dick look into his sketchbook, where his deepest secrets lie.
My DCU Fic Hunt Fic for Annocat.
(I tried to remove the dividing lines but they wouldn't budge :( )
Grayson, for once displaying some common courtesy, knocked twice on his door, but whatever points he might have earned were immediately negated when he barged in anyways.
“Hey Damian, dinner’s almost ready so- Ooh, what’s that?”
“That” referred to the sketchbook Damian was currently trying to stuff into the secret compartment under his desk. He would’ve had it in and hidden before Dick rudely intruded, but his music was a little louder than usual, making his reaction time a little slower than usual. It was already too late though, Grayson had already seen it, hiding it would only make him more curious (and annoying).
“Can I take a look?” Grayson asked while bounding across the room in exaggerated steps, as if he were a toddler rather than a full grown man, which to be honest, he acted more like the former than the latter.
“No.” Damian tersely replied as he set the sketchbook down on top of his desk.
“Please, just a peek?” Dick begged, his hands clasped together in front of him while pouting pitifully.
Damian rolled his eyes, Grayson’s performance didn’t even merit a response. Dick didn’t give up so easily though, pleading and blackmail were out of the picture, so the only thing left was bribery.
“C’mon Damian, please? I’ll let you have full reign over the Ashwood case!”
That was tempting, the way Grayson has been puttering about that case it would take eons to finish, if he were in control he’d have it wrapped and bowed within the week. Still, the sketchbook was incredibly personal, it would take more than a single case to convince him.
“I’ll also convince Bruce to let you get a cat!”
Now that was much better incentive. He considered it for a minute while Dick practically vibrated with anticipation on his bed (which was mussing up his carefully made sheets), before finally nodding. When Dick eagerly reached to take the sketchbook though, he slammed his left hand down on top of it and put up a finger.
“I will allow it this once, and only this once. While viewing it you will skip any pages I tell you to skip, and you will not ask any extraneous questions, understood?”
Dick nodded and took up the sketchbook when Damian released it. It was a fairly ordinary one, bound in black leather with no extra details. When he opened it the first page was taken up by an ink T-rex. Grayson opened his mouth, probably to say some inane thing about little boys and dinosaurs, but Damian cut him off before he could start.
“I started this sketchbook when I arrived here.”
Grayson looked back at the drawing before he realized why it felt so familiar, it was in the image of the dino currently residing in the Batcave. The one Damian once sucker punched a former Robin off of. The next few pages contained different redesigns of the Batsuit (the current one lacked proper intimidation and maneuverability). Dick praised the various sketches of people Damian met while training around the world, one of an old man in a turban in particular. Damian remembered him, he was kinder than most teachers he’d had, he also taught him a good deal of the killing strikes he knew, not that he’d tell Grayson.
Then Dick turned the page, and its contents laid in stark contrast to the pages before. The previous drawings showed objective technical skill, but this was a dark mass made by gray marker. Dick squinted at the middle of it, there was a shape in the center that looked like it might be a figure, but Damian quickly turned the page before he could get a good look. The next page contained a pencil sketch of Pennyworth.
Dick looked like he was about to ask something, but decided against it. Good, Damian didn’t want to think about that memory too much. Scribbling his heart into those pages was cathartic at the time, but revisiting them hurt badly. Sometimes he still had flashbacks to when his grandfather hoisted him up by his neck and tried to take over his body. Even if he never thanked them, he was grateful to his mother, father, Grayson, and yes, even Drake the failure, for making it in time to save him.
The next pages went more smoothly, there was a notable shift in style as the pages progressed. Before, his lines were sharper, more harsh and deep, but they became more flowing and light. A lot of his sketches were observational, there was Pennyworth rolling out dough, a candid of Bruce in front of the Batcomputer, and a study of birds in various positions. Pictures of Grayson also appeared with greater frequency, as the old Nightwing, then as Batman, and then as the newer, redder Nightwing. Most of them however, were of his civilian identity. One sneaked sketch of Grayson sprawled out on a bunch of case files, sound asleep, was forcibly flipped past, but not before Dick teased “creeper”.
Only two hiccups occurred actually. The first was a foreboding charcoal sketch of a menacing pig mask. When Grayson saw it he set down the sketchbook and faced him, “Hey Damian, about Professor Pyg, we never really had a serious talk about it, and I want to know if you’re ok, and you-“
Damian averted his eyes and butt in, “Cease, I’m fine, as if I could be affected by lower life forms. -tt-” As stoic as he acted though, he really wasn’t as unshaken from the encounter as he would like to be. There were consequences to getting a lap dance from a psychopathic murderer with a fetish for pork, but those he could deal with by himself.
The second was a large spread of Brown as Batgirl, flying by grapple line. He had forgotten it was there and flushed a bright red before flipping the page with so much ferocity it was a wonder that the sketchbook didn’t rip. Grayson had opened his big mouth to comment, but “I will rip out your throat” cut in first.
As time went on, Damian even started to enjoy answering Dick’s questions, even if he told him not to ask them at the beginning. Not that he’d admit it. His eyes wandered away and he zones out, thinking about some new engine tweaks, before he realizes Grayson had been quiet for too long. He looked back at the sketchbook and his eyes widened. There’s no mistaking what’s on the page. This sketch is messily done, in marker, and it’s rushed unlike the ones before.
It was from one of his particularly bad days. The day had started off with an encounter with Drake, and only went downhill from there. They got into another shouting match, which devolved into another fistfight in the cave, but this time Drake got lucky. He had left with some choice parting insults while Damian picked himself up off the floor. All in all it wouldn’t have been as terrible, but then Grayson had showed up and, after witnessing the carnage left over, lectured Damian about respect and whatnot. He hadn’t even listened to Damian when he’d tried to defend himself. Then he decided a punishment was in order. No Robin, for at least a week, if he couldn’t act like Robin should then he didn’t deserve to be Robin.
Damian left in a huff, those definitely weren’t tears in his eyes, and stomped up to his room at a dignified pace. The title of Robin was rightfully his! Wasn’t it? To have the gall take it away from him, had this ever happened to Drake? He couldn’t think of a time when it had. There was some truth to those words Drake had spat at him in the morning, about intruding upon families and wrecking them. About stealing Robin. Not that Damian cared about what Drake had to say of course, but the phrase “demon spawn” had niggled itself into his brain and was currently chewing on his thoughts like a maggot.
The product of that day was a skeletal figure wearing the Robin suit leering up from the page.
Damian slammed the sketchbook shut so fast he almost clipped Dick’s fingers and tossed it under the bed. “Let’s go, dinner must have been done for half an hour now. Pennyworth expects us at the table.”
Dick stopped him by grabbing his hand, Damian irritably tried to shake him off but Dick only gripped tighter. He slowly led them back to the bed.
“I’m sorry Damian.” Dick said steadily, looking directly at Damian while Damian looked anywhere but back at him.
“There is nothing to be sorry for.” He snappily replied.
“Yes there is.” Dick countered firmly, “I’m sorry that you ever felt this about yourself. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed to be comforted. I’m sorry that I didn’t try to talk to you about this earlier. I’m sorry that I didn’t know.”
Damian stared down at the ground, refusing to say anything back.
“Everyone says things they don’t mean when they’re mad. I know I’ve gotten irrationally mad at you sometimes, and so has Tim, but the hurtful things we say, we don’t mean them.”
Damian snorted, Drake meant every word of it, he was sure.
“You’ve had a hard life, and we sometimes forget the difficulties you’ve faced that we haven’t. I’m sorry for all the times that I’ve called you… that when I was mad or even jokingly in passing. I didn’t realize it made such a mark on you.”
At this point he gripped both of Damian’s hands in his and asked him, “Hey, look up at me? I know you’re not going to want to reply to me, but I need you to at least pay attention and focus on what I’m about to say.”
They sat in silence for a minute before Damian finally lifted his head and looked back at Dick. Granted he was staring at his mouth rather than his eyes, but it was close enough.
“Damian. You are an exceptional person, and we love you for who you are. In the time that I’ve known you, you have proven to me time and time again that you are strong, brave, and good hearted, even with all the odds against you. I know that you will choose to do the right thing because in your nature you are a good person. You are a persistent fighter, and I am honored to have been the Batman to your Robin.
“Know that you are loved. Your mother loves and cares about you above all else. Bruce, for all his stunted ability to show it, loves you, and he is proud of you. Colin, Cass, and Steph love you. When you two grow up you and Tim will come to respect each other. And I, I just, I am.” At this Dick broke off and awkwardly squeezed Damian’s hands before pulling him into a signature bonecrushing Dick-hug.
Damian allowed himself to be pulled into Dick’s tight grip, and while he didn’t exactly return the hug he did let his forehead rest upon Dick’s shoulder. There was an odd moistness that ringed his eyes, probably due to a chemical change in the atmosphere. He felt Dick’s arms squeeze tighter around his body and Damian awkwardly patted his back, hugging etiquette was still beyond him.
“Come on Grayson, your behavior is unbecoming. Pennyworth will be mad at us if we let dinner sit any longer.” He chided, breaking the hug. Dick sat up and wiped his nose on his sleeve before getting up.
“Yeah, he might even make us cook for ourselves.” Now that was a terrifying thought.