It wasn't really how Jason and Tim had thought their day would go.

Really, they should have known better than to go back to the Manor. They knew Damian was there and he had been rather less tolerant of their respective presences lately. More specifically Tim, as usual, but Jason had been on the receiving end of his ire as well. No one knew why.

But they needed a third opinion on a case, and with Bruce out of town and Alfred in England reconnecting with an old army buddy, Dick was on "babysitting" duty. Damian had strongly protested the word when Tim had brought it up.

(Tim would like to have it known that "strongly protested" isn't how he would describe nearly having his arm torn off. Jason would similarly remark that if he wanted all his limbs intact, he shouldn't have used the word "babysitting" in reference to Damian. It had gone badly for him before, it will go badly for him always.)

But those drugs were being smuggled in tonight. And it was a toss up of whether they would end up at Pier 12 in Warehouse 30 or Pier 30 in Warehouse 12. The two warehouses were very far from each other, too far to run from one to the other in time if they were wrong, and while they could stake them out separately, Tim had decided that he couldn't leave Jason alone with that many drug dealers for that amount of time. Honestly, the lack of faith in this family.

("It's not lack of faith Jason. It's the definite fact that if I leave you alone with those dealers, they will all end up with holes where their skulls used to be." To which Jason grumbled, but didn't contest the fact.)

Tim thought Pier 12, Jason thought Pier 30, so they needed Dick to break the tie. Of course, if Tim would bug off to his own warehouse, they wouldn't be having this issue. But they were so Jason reluctantly followed a somehow even more reluctant Tim through the Manor door. And then ran into him when Tim froze in the doorway.

Damian was sitting on the couch, back to them. While he didn't seem particularly on edge, Tim seemed wary and really, Jason couldn't blame him. The ten year old was very threatening. Still, they needed to find Dick and Jason didn't really feel like traipsing all over this overly-large manor with too many nooks and crannies for a former circus performer to hide in, so he grabbed Tim's shoulders, and pushed him a bit closer to Damian. "Hey Damian, do you know where Dick is? We need-"

Words failed him. Damian's head whipped around, and while the fiercely furled eyebrows were no surprise, the three donuts dangling from Damian's mouth were.

These were not small donuts either. He didn't have half a ring donut jutting out in the corner of his mouth or three donut holes clenched in his teeth. Somehow, Damian had managed to stick an apple fritter, a honey cruller and a Boston creme all in his mouth at once. Just barely, Jason could see the bright corner of the boxes the best coffee house in Gotham used for their fried cake treats sitting on Damian's lap. Of course, as soon as Jason's eyes landed on it, Damian curled around the box protectively, and his glare went from "what do you want" to "I will tear off your heads and use them as paperweights".

Running would have been a good idea, but honestly, Jason was very content staring at Damian incredulously. Tim seemed to agree.

There was a bit of a standoff where Damian's glare said, "leave now before I eviscerate you and leave your for the bats," and Jason and Tim wore twin looks of, "what the hell is going on? No, really, what the hell?"

Finally, Damian reached for something hidden by the back of the couch. With a familiar clatter of steel on hardened leather, his sword came up into view.

That was all Tim needed, and Jason was close behind him. The Manor door slammed behind them, a comforting barrier between them and Damian.

Finally, Tim spoke up. "So. Pier 12?"

"Yup."

They would deny calling it fleeing, but that really was the best word to describe it.

Damian huffed and pulled the donuts from his mouth. Placing them carefully on the plate in front of him, he calmly ate them while he finished sorting through the ones left in the box.

He hadn't meant to shove them all in his face at once. Not really. But Grayson had shown him a infantile tv show wherein one of the characters wanted to be left alone, and so shoved two ham sandwiches into his mouth and glared at the protagonist. Grayson hadn't been able to explain why it had worked on the show to Damian's satisfaction – something about people being naturally twitchy about odd scenarios – but as evidenced today, it was a useful tactic. He wondered how often he could use it before the imbeciles dismissed it as an eccentricity. Probably just the once. Pity.

Oh well. If he was lucky, his stunt would scare them off for the next week.

With a grunt of approval, he looked at his sorted box. Four of the donuts were perfect, and worthy of consumption. These he would give to Grayson as a thank you for taking him to the art store yesterday. Three, he would have to suffer eating himself, as he had already taken substantial bites out of each of them. The remaining five were unworthy of being eaten, due to insufficient chocolate frosting or misshapen bulges or slight overcookedness. These would be give to Fatgirl for disposal. He collected his bounty onto a plate and made for the Cave.

Grayson was frowning over a report. Since he couldn't go out as Nightwing or Batman currently, he had time to do all of the case prep he had been neglecting over the past week.

But Pennyworth had told Damian that Grayson would live longer if he took regular breaks. Hence the donuts. "Grayson."

The man turned, a smile lightening his face when he saw Damian. "Hey Little D! Whatcha got?"

"A truly loathsome snack. It is both deep fried and coated in sugar. But, you said you enjoyed them." The three Damian had eaten hadn't been horrible he supposed.

Taking a long sip from his coffee, Grayson nodded. "Kind of have to. I was a cop, remember? Liking donuts is in the job description." He reached out eagerly for the plate.

With a sigh, Damian handed it over. Grayson practically inhaled the first one, but took his time on the second. Damian fidgeted, then opened his mouth to speak, but Grayson beat him to it. "I know Damian. You're sorry. Don't worry though. It's not that big of a deal." He scratched one cheek, then rubbed at the blue covering his fingertip. "The lady said it would come off in a week. And Bruce will be back tomorrow. I think Gotham will be fine until then, right?"

Damian nodded, but guilt still swam in his stomach. Of course, the art shop shared in the blame. Who put paintbrushes on such high shelving and then neglected to have tall employees who could reach them? It wasn't completely Damian's fault the bottle of dye had decided to fall and land on Grayson's head when he'd made the attempt to scale the shelves.

At least he'd gotten his paintbrush. But Batman would strike quite a bit less fear into the superstitious criminals with his chin covered in neon blue. Perhaps Nightwing could have pulled it off. But if anyone got a picture, the ineffectual shop workers might suspect his identity.

Grayson was eyeing him, as if he could read his thoughts. "Tell you what. To make it up to me, you have to paint me something."

Leveling a flat look at his mentor, Damian demanded, "explain what you mean by that request." Because painting was used to release emotion, so he could do his patrols unimpeded by it.

"Exactly what I said Dami." He polished off his donut, then reached for the last. "The next thing you paint, specifically with the paintbrush you got, I would like it."

Now Damian was really confused. He spent a moment speechless (a moment he would deny to his dying day), then finally croaked out, "why?"

Grayson just lifted an eyebrow. "Because. Now come on. There's something going down at Pier 30 tonight and we need to figure out a way to get Jason and Tim to crash it for us."

Two weeks later, a new picture graced the Manor's halls. Damian had dragged his easel to the highest building in Gotham and painted the skyline at night. He claimed it was because a week of being grounded had made him stir crazy and that painting was a mere outlet for his frustration, and that might have been true, but Dick could see the emotion in every pinprick of light dotting the canvas. Damian had loved painting this. And Dick displayed it with pride.

AN: This is not an apology for Verdant Memory, because I am not apologizing for that. This fluff is here because Arrow needed motivation for math.

However, if you interpret it as such, I cannot stop you.

The cover was drawn by me. "Drawn." Sketched is more accurate.

Read and enjoy!