A/N: Damian's scars are from Batman and Robin, and various other comics, where Damian's organs are repeatedly replaced.

Warning: This is where the SEX begins, people. Colin/Damian, dub-con, and Tim/Damian, very much con.

~Prodigal Son, 11~

~Damian POV~

...fuck. Is all I have to say on this matter. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

I am bisexual. This much is perfectly evident, from my (previous...?) relationship, with Colin. And my many...escapades...during puberty. I like to experiment. To explore all realms of possibility. And, I like to think myself, even after my stunted emotional beginnings, a somewhat accurate judge of human sexual interaction.

And I swear by Allah and all other fictional deities, that Timothy Drake is FLIRTING with ME.

It is not done in the conventional fashion. No. And I am very much convinced that this is not simply my...childhood machinations...colouring my present disposition. As a boy, I had lusted after Drake in an entirely non-sexual capacity. I took from him. I broke him. I taunted him. It was the equivalent of the schoolboy immaturity, throwing rocks at the pretty girl on the swings. Not that I am entirely convinced, either Drake or myself could be considered the feminine in this...whatever this, is.

But it makes absolutely no logical sense.

Everything he has done, until this point. Everything between us, from the past. It makes. No. Sense. But I cannot find it within myself to even...care, particularly. Fuck. FUCK. Damn, but I never could resist a cold, heartless bastard. It is an unfortunate weakness of mine. And especially...well...this is Drake. He was an intangible embodiment of so very many things.

1 minute and 56 seconds is an absolutely excessive time to check someone's pulse. This I know. Although there is nothing, no indication of anything behind his eyes or his features, there is this palpable texture to the air and this practical stench of pheromones that is making my stomach roil.

I feel sick. I do not care. I cannot allow this. And I do not care. This will hurt me. His lips touch my forehead. Damn. I WANT this. I have always wanted this. You heartless, heartless, arsehole. I hate you. I hate you with every fibre of my being. And I would also very much like to fu-

I think I am going to be vomit. Get out. Get away from my face. Stop. You are going to leave. You do not CARE. Why are you doing this? Colin-

My entire body goes deathly cold. Drake is looking at me, expectantly. Not a shadow nor a breathe of- of that. Maybe I am going as insane as Jason Todd.

"Would you explain the medical procedure, please?"

He does so, with the usual rapt efficiency. I disgust myself, because I am barely even listening.

When Abuse awakens, it is languid, and slow, and I am glad. But then, he frowns. Scowls. And sniffs, once. Twice. Three times, hard. There is a numb ringing between my ears. I hold the cool bar of the gurney with limp, inert fingers. As a condemned traitor at the dock.

He can smell sex on me.

He knows it was not enacted. But he can smell...something. Drake probably stinks entirely of soap and medical supplies. Perhaps it will be indistinguishable. And I am already talking like a lover having an affair. When nothing. Has. Happened.

Fuck you, Drake. Seriously. Fuck you. I...do not know what to feel. And I do not know what to think. Colin. Think of COLIN. But I cannot. I do, but not in the way that I should. How can I? His mind...the man I knew...the teenager, who shared my first cigarette, who fixed motorcycles with me, who bled beside me, is...is not...

Cold, wet, thin lips find my ear "...wa...nt...?"

He sounds dreamy. Whimsical. Like a child, but entirely unlike a child. He is not a child, he is a man. A man who is forced to think like a child. But how can I know that? How can I know any of this? I cannot be sure-

"...mian..."

I am flat on the floor. And I am not entirely sure how this happened. It is cold. And slippery. Wet. Colin's wrists are thin, but I can see the venom, pulsing, dully, down to the curls of his knuckles, as his hands flex, around my biceps, hesitate. He bites his lip, leans down, auburn hair falling over my torso, and sniffs, deeply, at the junction of my neck. My forehead. Where Drake touched me.

The fingers tighten around my upper arms until I can practically feel the bones creak, and he makes sounds, babbling sounds, curious sounds, interested sounds, angry sounds. Like a baby.

The bile rises like a tide in my throat, and I choke on it, feel his hands press down in a pin and perceive his head ducking beyond my peripheral vision. Because I am looking at the ceiling. At the tiles. At the mould. The flecks of plaster-

His mouth clearly remembers what his mind cannot.

I cannot move. I cannot. I am about to be pleasured by a mentally retarded invalid and I am going to let him. I do not tremble. I do not move at all. I close my eyes and count the pulses of my heart, and feel the phantom of Drake's fingertips keeping the beat, and twistedly, twistedly, am comforted by the memory. His lips are sloppy around me, catch on the zipper, bleed on me.

When I orgasm, I almost retch into the back of my throat, with it. I am vaguely aware that those are Dick's jeans. And that I shall have to burn them. And the entire sticky patch of skin on my stomach. I shall skin it. Or scald it off. His weight recedes, and he frets, like a scolded boy, and blushes, and bites his thumb. Somehow, I kiss his forehead, and carry him to bed.

I do not notice opening the door. Passing somebody made of blackness, with a halo border of white. Do not notice the voice calling after me. Where am I going, it asks.

Where am I going? I am going to go out and get so drunk I can barely breathe, then get fucked until I feel I have bled enough for the guilt and the sickness to go away.

~Tim POV~

Damian has remained beside Colin pretty much ever since I have been permitted to examine him for a concussion. I have been remaining in the observation room, writing up the side effects of the drugs I administered, checking notes, rechecking what I should be doing in the next couple of days or so, and I am absorbed up until the point where I hear a body hit the floor.

I stand sharply. Colin is covering Damian on the floor. I had… potentially anticipated that they had a relationship such as this prior to Colin's mental incapacitation, but I did not in a thousand years think it possible for that to be continued regardless of each person's mental state.

It takes a few seconds to work out what I am apparently going to end up watching. Not out of any sick pleasure, but more … the inability to look away. The same way that when someone dies, regardless of how horribly they do, you watch until the very end. Just visible, beyond the end of the bed, is a pair of scarred legs, with jeans hitched downwards. My fists curl.

Why? Why would Damian allow…? I assume, judging by the lack of movement, that Damian is not participating. And it seems only dubiously consensual. Does it count as rape if one of the parties doesn't really know what they are doing? If the other party is adhering to everything out of guilt? That is the only logical explanation. Damian is faulting himself for something, and consequently allowing Colin this...act.

Acid burns my throat. I can do nothing. This is not my battle to pick. If I report it, Damian and Colin will probably be prohibited from seeing each other again, and Damian will end up being the person held accountable. Fuck! Clench and unclench. Clench and unclench. I wish it would stop. I wish the man-child would cease, and get the hell off Damian Wayne.

Damian leaves in a world of his own. I doubt sincerely that he hears me. I leave my work at the station I was at, and follow as best I can without being seen. Damian ends up in a very sleazy looking bar.

Again, I am powerless to watch as he drinks enough to burn a hole through his own stomach. It is to forget, the act of downing that much alcohol. It is something that I was once very familiar with, in the second year. There is only so far I can interfere. I have already done enough following him, it is really stepping over the line, but I cannot bear to leave him alone.

It is not long before he looks perfectly inebriated. His movements are slower, his hair falling out of place – words float across the bar, and come across slurred.

Then he is on the move, swaggering across the bar to two men who I don't like the look of. The first strike to his face makes me grit my teeth, and bare them, ever so slightly. Damian smiles. Apparently this was what he was aiming for. The second one makes my blood boil. They are dragging him towards the bar's exit by the hair. It has been a very long time since I have seen any form of anger that is hot, writhing like a demon in my gut, but this makes me want to murder both of them.

I must not kill them. But there are so many worse things than death. I leave before they do, having been seated near the door, and await the first one, who is already fumbling with a belt. A snarl that is not mine is elicited from beyond my lips. The man is slammed into a wall. I break both his knees in less than twenty seconds, striking behind his eardrum to cause the most pain, and press my thumb into the cavity between his collarbone hard. He slumps to the floor.

The other one, dragging Damian, appears. He does not see his friend, nor realise that I am behind him. I break the wrist that holds Damian with a definite snap. Both hands dig deep into the flesh underneath his jaw from behind and jerk it backwards, and sideways. One is unconscious. That one is probably going to be paralysed for life. Hopefully he will become a quadriplegic.

Damian's reactions are slowed enough that I am able to pull him quickly into a fireman's carry and start walking. I was fortunate that bar didn't have CCTV. The men are left moaning in the gutter. I can't find anything in me to give a damn, or feel anything but utter loathing for them. Disgusting creatures.

I take him to one of my old apartments, under one of my old aliases. It is still fairly pristine when I finally enter. The Arabic idiot I am presently wearing is lowered down onto the bed. As soon as I have put him down, I whirl on him. For once, I can feel anger rising visibly. I'm sure it is written all over my face.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" I hiss, standing over him now that he is seated, and I am taller. Both my fists are curled tightly. "Not only going to a bar, getting drunk when you have had potential head trauma today, but propositioning men who would hurt you physically? Do you think physical punishment is going to solve anything?" My voice doesn't rise. I can feel the cold, calculated anger that caused me to paralyse a man mere minutes ago come across in my voice.

"What purpose would your pain by the hands of two homophobes serve?"

~Damian POV~

What the FUCK do you think you are doing, Drake, you flat-arsed piece of uncaring shit! I had a good thing going there! Cockblocking CUNT. Cockblocking cunt with really very attractive ears. I want to lick one. It is in front of my nose.

I remember hearing a thud. Lots of thuds. And cracks. Noises of pain. Drake's face. His rounded, pointy face, with those bow lips that would be oh so pretty if they weren't always fucking pursed like there's a lemon under his nose and up his ASS. That would sting. Anger, teeth, heat in that cold face. Heat in my belly.

I'm dumped on a bed. Thrown. I like that. Been tossed into a wall today. Fuck. What point would it serve? What would it SERVE? It would make me feel better, it would- or- actually no. It would have made me feel worse. But it would have pushed and pushed and obliterated anything else but the pain.

Drake's breathing a little hard and his perfect, perfect shiny hair is in mild disarray across his forehead. I remember his face close to mine. The pressure of his fingertips. The smell, the smell, red leather and sweat and spit in my face-

"Fuck you." I snarl, bolt upright, seize him by the hips and yank him up over the bedstead and on top of me.

His face is blank. That cold superior emptiness and the sheer weight and the hard muscle and the neat, neat clothes and that stupid shiny head that I want to crack open and listen to the tick tick tick-

"You know..." our faces are so close that when my nostrils flare with each, heavy breath, the skin brushes and the cool, mathematic architecture swell of his nose "you're an arsehole. A cold, heartless, cockblocking, teasing BASTARD."

My cheeks and ears roar with blood, and I am hot and prickly all over and he is cold cold cold, and I fold my arms around the curve of his tailbone and CRUSH him to me, revel in the weight, dip my head up and fit the square plans of my face into the ill-fitting mould of his curved one. I let out a long, heavy breath against his skin, watch the fine strands of hair, immaculate and straight, flutter and fret in the gust, and I want to move him, I want to break him and move with him and in him and him in me and to disappear into him and him to GO AWAY and stay-

"And it is such a fucking TURN-ON." I whisper, except it is GUTTURAL and lilted and old and young and my voice and nobody elses, and God I WANT this, want him...

I hesitate, just a hiccough, then swallow his intake of breath with my mouth, grin against his surprised 'o' and bite down and grind and tug at the bow of his bottom lip until the blood paints both our teeth Robin Red.

~Tim POV~

I am being cussed out, and then the world slights, and I collide with the hard mass that is Damian Wayne, in a disarray of limbs. My hands land one on his shoulder, the other beside his head, an elbow to support the latter being my only leverage above him. Fuck me? Is that a request, demand, or just a statement of fact?

I regard him coolly through slightly slitted eyes. He is millimetres away. And I'm not sure what I want to do the most. Punch him, or kiss him to make him shut the fuck up. Stop talking, Damian. You're drunk, says the rational part of my brain. But with one of my legs between both of his, and the other one sprawled on my bed, atop him, rationality doesn't really play a leading role here. I can almost feel my lips twitching at all the accusations. That must be some form of a compliment coming from him.

Then he is biting at my lip, and my only thought is that I am not going to be bested by a man who is drunk off his face, and only able to express arousal through profanity. Damian Wayne can be beaten at his own game, and I'm going to be the one to do it. A metallic taste floods my mouth, and a slightly insane grin presses against his lips. I let the rest of my weight lie atop him, without my holding it up whatsoever. One arm braces, whilst the other grips tightly at the back of his neck, forcing him ever closer so that I have better exploratory access.

You're not the only one who can play, Damian. It is very satisfactory to draw blood back. The demon spawn may have sharp teeth, but he doesn't know exactly where to bite.

I break the contact in favour of licking my teeth, and there is an idea forming on his expression that I do not like. I press hard into the two tendons at the base of his neck, easy stimulus, but it does not deter him. Teeth pull the top button of my shirt off.

That little SHIT. He's got BLOOD on my fucking SHIRT.

I'm sure he'd be amused to see my eyes conveying anger. I pull my hips tighter against his, only to have the rest of the buttons taken off as he rips the damned thing open.

"You little fuck!" I growl, grabbing the back of his hair, and yanking it back to expose an untouched column of neck. Fun. Don't mess with someone who knows exactly where every single pressure point is, and how to use it to his advantage is. I stop for a moment to regard him, gently pressing each point with my free hand. I note the twitches, which betray him, as everybody would be forced to react, and bite hard, sucking the skin between my teeth.

I 'treat' four different pressure points, the ones that elicited the most reaction from him, to the same remedy, a firm grip keeping his head tilted back to reveal the soft underside of his jaw. Something to play with for later. Clamping down on the junction between neck and knotted shoulder muscle gives me the most pleasure, as it causes Damian to jerk a little more than his control would like, I'd imagine, given I can feel it. He starts cursing in Arabic, much to my amusement.

Something about "had such a fucking crush, you asshole" and "red leather". Hmn. Interesting factoids for later.

Time for some new territory, given he has already RUINED one of my favourite shirts.

I begin to push up the shirt he has on presently, only to be received by muscles locking up. One eyebrow rises, and I glance at his face. Fear. Now I really want to know what is under there. A few inches, and the beginnings of a scar is seeing the light of day. An intricate, sewn scar, akin to those I staple after an autopsy.

"Fascinating" I find myself muttering, without even consciously doing so. I push the shirt up further, and trace the long scar line with the hand I have just had to untangle from the now fairly unkempt hair. The skin has knitted together as though subjected to an environment that is not in vivo blood clotting. I sit up a little to see it properly, utterly fixated. So many mysteries wrapped in one fun-sized box. I can't even tear my view away for the moment, so transfixed that I is the only thing I concentrate on. Heh. Bet I'm going to get called a freak, or something equally immature for this one.

~Damian POV~

Holy-Inpromptu-Makeout-Session-Batman! Because Timothy Drake fights fucking DIRTY. This is unexpected. And really quite excellent.

We are matched. Forcing and pushing and grinding each others weaknesses into powder, and I revel in the ecstasy of his twitchings, the dilation of his pupils in those moments where he loses his precious CONTROL, where I violate his patterns and fuck with his mind.

I run my palms along the planes of his torso, recall seeing this very muscular structure, the curves and the dips and peaks encased in bright red leather, blood red leather, and remembering the carpet burn of the mansion and a fist in my face makes the hardness and the heat and the pressure only build, because he was once My Enemy and supposed to be Brother and that is, frankly, HOT. The violation. The sin.

Bringing yet another Giant of my boyhood crashing down to Earth to lay among the mortals, and-

Oh.

No. Get off. I...don't look. Don't TOUCH. Fuck off, it's...it...

...fascinating?

That...that's different. But then that is why...why I...why I am intrigued by him. Because he is different. But...the nakedness of my torso is more naked than my entire body could ever be. My Frankenstein nature, laid bare. The fact that my existence is a construct. A freak. Contrived. Maintained by a madwoman. I am a conglomeration of contrived parts.

...can't you love me for who I am, not who you want me to be...?

No. I am too much of a perfectionist.

Yes. Perfection. And I shall never be perfect. I shall never even be...whole...fuck. Alcohol. Drake. Cold fingers. Red lips. I fold my arms over my eyes, and laugh to swallow my shivers.

~tbc~