Photographs did not do Gotham justice. His father's city sprawled before him in a cascade of stone monoliths and elongated shadows. She was a dark and enticing lady, her sharp edges softened by the thrum of life persisting through her labyrinthine streets.

Damian al Ghul drew in his first breath of Gotham City air and felt, perhaps for the first time in his seventeen years of life, that he was home.

First contact with his father's family would dictate the tone of every interaction to follow and there was too much on the line for it to go anything but well. With this in mind, Damian had chosen his desired entry point with care.

Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne was a choice of convenience and practicality.

The League's dossier named him as the third of Bruce Wayne's wards and the only one he'd chosen to adopt. He was the third to wear the mantle of Robin, the first and only to be Red Robin. And despite dropping out of high school, he became the face of the Wayne empire at just sixteen. A position he'd held ever since.

He was also the most publicly accessible of the Wayne family. Richard Grayson came a close second, but his semi-permanent Bludhaven residency discounted him from consideration. Stephanie Brown ranked third, but her dossier gave Damian the impression that she lacked the immediate closeness to the family he required.

If things were to go according to plan, he needed to present himself before his father within a day of meeting Timothy Drake. Convincing one member of the family to trust in a League defector would go a long way towards convincing father to trust a DNA test.

( Ah, the lovely web of lies and subterfuge his dear mother left for him to untangle. He really wouldn't be able to forgive her for this. )

Damian planned their first meeting down to the last detail. The best way to ensure a private meeting with Drake was to simply book one with his secretary under false pretenses, using one of a dozen aliases he'd accumulated over the years. It was even easier than expected to secure a timeslot; a gross oversight in Drake's security, in his opinion. One he planned to take advantage of.

The day of, Damian strode into Wayne Enterprises' Gotham headquarters and acquired a visitor's pass from the front desk. He rode the elevator to the executive suites in meditative silence, mastering the tick of his racing pulse. Thoughts of 'finally' and 'father is just three floors above' were swept from his mind, leaving him clear and ready to carry out his plan.

Drake's secretary sent him through to the main office after making a short call on her desk phone to confirm his appointment. He hardly spared her a nod in thanks, intently focused on the frosted glass door between him and his goal.

All thoughts of which flew from his mind the moment he stepped into the expansive office and laid eyes on Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne for the first time.

One would think that a hundred page dossier complete with medical records and glossy, high-resolution photographs would be enough to prepare him. It was not. Not even his grandfather's uncomfortable habit of espousing Drake's virtues could hold a candle to the reality of the man in front of him.

To call him beautiful was to call the polar ice caps a bit chilly.

He carried himself with the kind of feline grace women killed for, combined with the elegant posture of an emperor. Everything from the cut of his suit to the color of his tie screamed of a man with power and the good sense to know how to wield it.

Silken strands of pitch-dark hair brushed against his cheeks, framing aristocratic features. The pink of his lips was so pale as to be pastel and the blue of his eyes- Damian could write poetry about his eyes, liken them to glaciers and stardew, and still not have the right words.

"Ah, Mr. Atkos," Drake greeted as he came around his desk, extending a hand. "A pleasure to meet you."

Damian managed to rouse from his daze enough to take his hand ( firm grip, calloused palms, a scar cutting across the pads of his fingers ) and shake.

"The pleasure is mine," he assured, voice far steadier than he'd expected.

Something flickered in Drake's expression, then and gone in less than a second. Perhaps if he'd been anything but struck dumb, Damian might have caught it. Instead, he was too busy mourning the loss of Drake's hand in his.

"Excuse me one moment, Mr. Atkos."

Drake- Timothy -breezed around him and leaned out his office door.

"Tam?" he called. "Please take an early lunch. Yes, thank you."

Damian, desperately trying to collect his scattered thoughts, registered the sound of a door locking half a moment too late.

He reacted on instinct rather than conscious thought, dropping as the heel of a well-made loafer swung for his head. There was enough time for him to register he was being attacked, then Timothy was on him.

The way he moved was almost liquid. Damian wanted to marvel at his fighting style- something Shiva, almost League, but then with too much dancer's balance and Batman efficiency for that -but he couldn't spare the energy. It took almost everything he had to block the blows coming at him.

The snap of extending metal was his only warning.

In three swift movements, Timothy had him pinned against the glass that made up his office wall, staff pressing towards his throat. Damian had brought his forearms up to block, trapping his arms if he didn't want the cold metal bar to slam directly into his larynx.

"Ra's and I have a deal," Drake snarled, leaning into the staff to add more pressure. "I figured he'd learned to stick to it after the last assassin he sent after me."

Damian's eyes widened.

"How-" he stammered. "How did you-?"

"Know you're League?"

Drake scoffed.

"Your eyes," he said. His mouth curled into a nasty smile. "I know Lazarus green when I see it."

Damian felt something like fire blossom in his chest.

"Oh," he breathed.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Timothy was glowering at him, which was perfectly fine as far as Damian was concerned. It meant he had his attention and gave him an excellent excuse to study him from head to toe. Of course, once Timothy noticed, he only scowled harder.

"Bruce."

"Tim," Bruce replied. He exhaled, almost weary. "If you have another suggestion, you're welcome to voice it."

"Besides making him Robin? Yeah, I can think of a few things!"

"That don't include tossing him in Blackgate or sending him back to his mother?"

Tim's mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

"Not that anyone asked my opinion before making this decision," Dick Grayson piped up, having finally abandoned the pommel horse. "But I think it's a good idea."

"You what?"

Damian dragged his eyes away from Tim long enough to give Grayson a similarly disbelieving stare. Grayson shrugged.

"Best case scenario, we're helping integrate him into the family. Worst case, he tries to turn on one of us and we're all out there to take him down. No offense, little D."

"None taken," Damian said. "Though I would suggest you do not call me that again."

Grayson's immediate smile told him that he'd just secured the abhorrent nickname as a permanent moniker from this point on. His brow twitched.

"I'm not thrilled about this either, Tim," Bruce said, picking up their conversation as if it hadn't been interrupted. "But so far, the information Damian brought us has been good. And the DNA test checks out."

"All three of them you ran," Damian added.

His father had the decency to wince, which he counted as an apology.

Tim continued to glare.

"I don't like it," he said firmly. "But I trust your judgement, B."

"I do not plan to break that trust," Damian said, directing his words towards Tim and Tim alone.

He missed his father's subtle frown.

Damian got the impression, after a few nights working alongside his father, that Robin was a skin most people shed by this point in their lives. The uniform itself had been fabricated for his measurements specifically and was both breathable and easy to move in, but the figurative mantle was another matter. Robin carried certain expectations with it.

He wasn't positive he was up to the task.

"What would you have preferred I do, just let him shoot those women?!"

"There are other ways, Robin!"

"Please, enlighten me, father, how exactly could I have stopped him in time to preserve the lives of his victims?!"

Batman spun on his heel, looming over Robin despite the very few inches differing their heights.

"We. Do not. Kill," he snarled from between his teeth.

Damian tore the domino from his face with slightly too much force, leaving the skin around his eyes stinging. He glared at his father, matching his growl tooth for tooth.

"The man was a human trafficker," he hissed. "Filth. The world is better off without him in it, and we both know it."

"That doesn't matter. We don't kill, no exceptions."

"You may not, but it is foolish to force that rule on others!"

Batman wrenched his cowl back, revealing the stern face of his father.

"If you kill in my city again, Damian," he spoke, voice low and ominous. "I will lock you up, the way I would any other criminal."

The best thing about living in Wayne Manor was that Tim Drake spent a great deal of time there.

Every family member seemed to maintain a room somewhere on the vast property, even those of them who rarely deigned to spend time there. But as luck would have it, Tim was not such an individual.

Pennyworth- who Damian had come to be very fond of -always had a pot of exceptionally strong coffee brewing in the morning, just in case Tim made an appearance. When he did, which was a great deal more often than you'd think, it was always prefaced with sleepy shuffling and slurred greetings.

Tim Drake was not a morning person.

He was also not nearly as put-together as Damian initially judged him to be. Which, really, should have done something to dull his overall opinion of him. Only, Damian found his unkempt appearance and grouchy demeanor hopelessly charming, of all things.

There was also the added benefit of the ten minute timespan between when Tim would emerge from his room and make his way down to the kitchen, and when the caffeine would finally start to kick in. In that time, he was only awake enough to nurse his coffee, which gave Damian ample opportunity to just watch him from across the table.

He was almost certain Tim didn't notice. His father did, but until he saw fit to say something about it instead of glaring his disapproval, Damian chose to pretend he didn't notice.

The manor's only other full time resident was Duke Thomas, who also happened to be the only family member to regard Damian with anything besides suspicion. As a result, he was what Damian considered to be his favorite sibling.

Duke nodded at him as he held open the door to the library, allowing him to exit without wrangling the books in his arms. Damian returned the nod politely, before slipping through the door into the quiet sanctum beyond.

"Good afternoon, Timothy."

Tim's shoulders went rigid, then rolled to ease his tension. He straightened his back and tossed a cool stare over his shoulder.

"Damian."

The curt greeting wasn't exactly unusual, but something about his tone carried more ice than usual. Damian frowned.

"Have I done something to offend you?"

"No," came the sharp retort, too quickly to be honest.

"If I have, I apologize. Though, I cannot know what for if you will not tell me."

"Why don't you give your apologies to Dick instead," Tim snapped. He returned the book he held to its place on the shelf and rounded on Damian. "He deserves it after covering for you. Again."

"I did not ask him to do that," Damian frowned.

He wasn't sure how to convey to Tim exactly how uncomfortable Grayson's self-sacrificing actions made him. The man had somehow gotten it into his head that Damian was his responsibility, and therefore in need of his mentorship and protection. Neither were particularly true.

He may be the youngest of their family, but Damian had the self-awareness to understand his actions had consequences. No one needed to protect him from that.

"Tell Dick that."

"I have."

This seemed to mollify Tim, but only just. Damian chanced a step towards him.

"Is that the only reason you are displeased with me, Timothy?" he asked carefully.

"What other reason would I have?"

"I am not sure."

Tim scoffed derisively and turned away, though his arms remained tightly curled across his chest. Damian continued his cautious approach, all but holding his breath as he drew nearer to the object of his affections. When there was but an arm's length between them, Tim turned abruptly, putting the bookshelf at his back.

Damian paused, assessing. Tim narrowed his eyes.

"You kill people," he said, quietly.

Damian tilted his head.

"I do. When necessary, I do."

Tim's eyes narrowed further and his mouth twisted into an unhappy sneer.

There was a point to be made about the early years of Red Robin and how Ra's al Ghul would never fixate on someone without at least a little bloodlust in them, but Damian was wise enough not to make it. He took another step forward instead, shrinking the distance between them to a handful of inches.

The expression on Tim's face shifted to one of guarded apprehension as he became aware of the position in which he'd put himself.

"Would you prefer if I did not?"

"If you didn't... what?" Tim asked warily.

"Kill."

Shock and confusion warred for prominence in Tim's glacier blue eyes.

Damian seized the moment of disquiet to close the last of the gap left between their bodies, caging the smaller man in with his arms. A new wave of tension rolled through Tim like a storm. He pressed his shoulder blades back against the shelf behind him, eyes flicking from side to side, seeking exits.

The obvious gaps in Damian's defense were easy to find. Deliberate. Tim could flee at any moment, if he really wanted to, and they both knew it.

"If I were to cease killing altogether, would it make me more appealing to you, beautiful bird?" Damian murmured lowly. "Would you be more fond of me if I spared lives as you do?"

Pink dusted Tim's fair cheekbones, like rose dust on ivory.

"You shouldn't- You shouldn't stop killing people just because I want you to." he tried to reason.

"But what if I do, beautiful bird?"

For a moment, silence reigned, and Damian wondered if he'd gone a step too far. He began to draw back, apology forming on his tongue, when fingers suddenly curled into the front of his shirt.

He froze, stunned, only to be spurned into movement by gentle tugging. Damian fell forward, drawn towards Tim like a moth to flame, until they were almost nose to nose. Mint and coffee carried on Tim's breath and he wanted desperately to lick it from his mouth.

"Then yes, Damian," Tim murmured to him. "It would please me."

Damian's mouth went dry.

He could only stand there, hunched and frozen, as Tim slipped out from under his arm and fled the library, leaving him alone with only his pounding heartbeat for company.

The last time Damian had seen Jason Todd, the man had roughly as much brain function as a potato. He was pretty sure Todd had no memory of this, which was probably for the better.

Especially considering the gun in his hand and how it was currently pointed at him.

"This is far less threatening than you think it is," Damian said dryly. "You use rubber bullets, Hood."

The red helmet offered no insight into Todd's expression, but his massive shoulders lifted in a shrug.

"Still hurt like a bitch though, don't they?" he said. "Close enough range, I might take out an eye or somethin'."

"And if his bullets don't," Spoiler added sweetly from where she crouched atop the remains of a dining room table. "These batarangs definitely will."

"Consider me intimidated."

Todd snorted.

"You're not."

"I am not," Damian agreed. He eyed the closest window, the glass conveniently blown out in keeping with the building's dilapidated status. "Now what is it you two want, exactly?"

Both Red Hood and Spoiler grew serious, postures shifting from casual to vigilant almost in tandem. It was intimidating, having the two of them bearing down on him. Had Damian been anything but an al Ghul, he may have tried to make a run for it.

"You spend an awful lot of time around Red Robin," Spoiler said.

"Yeah," Hood added. "And you're not exactly subtle with the flirtin' neither."

"And as Red Robin's friends, we're concerned."

"About what the fuck you think you're doin', mostly."

It took a great deal of willpower for Damian not to gape.

"Are you serious?" he managed. "You want to know what my intentions towards him are?"

Even masked, he could feel the pair scowling at him. Spoiler leapt from her perch and stormed across the cracked tile, stopping at Hood's side.

"Listen up, assassin," she spat. "RR's been through enough shit to last a lifetime, and your family's responsible for at least half of it! The last thing he needs is you to show up when he's finally doing well and start making his life more difficult."

"Oh, like you two did?"

It was a low blow, and not one Damian was particularly proud of taking.

Spoiler flinched. Hood didn't. He cocked his gun instead.

"Watch your fuckin' tone," he said, voice dangerous.

Damian resisted the urge to rub his temples.

"All you need to know about my intentions is that at the first sign of discomfort, I will remove myself from Red Robin's presence," he sighed. "Until such a time as my advances are rebuked, I do not think it any business of yours what he and I do."

"I'm sorry-?!" Spoiler spluttered.

"Are you seriously sayin' baby bird hasn't told you to fuck off yet?"

He offered Hood a feral grin.

"As a matter of fact; no, he has said nothing of the kind."

Damian finally made a break for the window, catching both vigilantes by surprise by charging past them rather than ducking towards the exit on his left. He alighted on the windowsill long enough to call over his shoulder; "Now if you would excuse me, Red Robin is expecting me for patrol," before disappearing into the night.

He never meant to fall in love with Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, but Damian began to suspect that he'd never really had a choice.

"Sit there and do not move!"

Damian obeyed, dropping heavily onto the threadbare couch as Tim disappeared deeper into the safe house.

The muffled sound of his voice filtered through the doorway, carrying with it a litany of curses in at least five different languages. Damian recognized it for the stress response it was. Some part of him couldn't help taking a kind of morbid joy in knowing Tim cared enough for that.

By the time he returned, domino gone and an oversized medkit in hand, Damian's blood was beginning to stain the upholstery.

"Strip," he ordered tersely.

Damian slowly peeled the bloody tunic from his body, hissing through his teeth as fire flared along his side. The skin of his torso pulled, threatening to tear the trio of gaping claw marks wider. Tim swore colorfully.

"Can you turn this way?" he asked, eyes focused on the injury

"I think so."

"Try."

It took some effort and a great deal more pain than he allowed to show on his face, but soon Damian was turned to face the back of the couch. He leaned his uninjured side into the cushions, privately grateful for the support.

Tim, having divested himself of his cape, now swapped his reinforced gloves for the disposable kind. He took up gauze and a bottle of alcohol, face grim, and set about cleaning the sluggishly bleeding gouges. Damian bore the pain with little more than a grimace, intent on not making the task any harder on his companion than need be.

As in everything, Tim was both efficient and methodical. He finished disinfecting the wound in short order and changed out his bloody gloves for a new pair. The needle he'd prepared while Damian stripped now pressed to his skin, sliding into flesh with little resistance.

The pinch and drag of stitches was familiar and repetitive, almost soothing, in a macabre sort of way. Damian found himself drifting as he was tended to, content in the silence.

"Why?" Tim asked, breaking him from his reverie.

Damian lifted his head from his arms, unsure when he'd laid it down to begin with, and turned to look at the man beside him.

"Why what?"

"Why did you let this happen," Tim demanded, frustrated. "You could have just..."

He trailed off, the implication left hanging. The surgical thread pulled taut as he knotted it.

"Killed them?" Damian offered, as Tim taped gauze over the stitched up wounds. "I could have. Easily."

"So why didn't you?"

He had to turn again to assist in winding a roll of bandages around his torso, which was considerably easier now the claw marks weren't open and bleeding. Tim made quick work of layering and fastening the dressing in place, clearly well-practiced in the act. His touch lingered, fingertips brushing the space where white dressings met golden skin.

Damian waited, but Tim made no effort to lift his gaze. He reached out, heart pounding in his ears when Tim allowed him to tilt his chin up until their eyes met.

"Because you asked me not to, beautiful bird," he said softly, and hoped that the weight of those words carried.

"Damian."

"Yes, father?"

"What exactly are you planning, with Timothy?"

"...Really, father? You too?"

In the aftermath of his first Arkham breakout, all Damian really wanted was a cold shower, a cup of tea, and his bed. What he got was a rooftop, a bottle of ice cold Zesti, and Tim.

They sat shoulder to shoulder on the lip of the roof, surveying the scene below with only mild interest. The street was packed with police and clean-up crews, moving in ant-like swarms both towards and away from the epicenter of destruction. Members of the family were vaguely visible, if Damian squinted, but he was too tired to focus on tracking them.

Tim swayed, at first just brushing their arms together, then purposefully leaning his weight against Damian's side.

"You know," he hummed. "Lately, everyone's been very keen on telling me to be careful around you."

"Oh?" Damian said, struggling to disguise the sudden spike in his heart rate.

Tim hummed again.

"They seem to all be under the impression that you're planning to take advantage of me, and I'm simply too trusting to see it."

An incredulous snort escaped Damian before he could think better of it. Timothy Drake and trusting didn't belong in the same hemisphere, let alone the same sentence. The grin his outburst earned him said they were thinking the same thing.

"But see," Tim went on, his fingers tracing the loops and swirls of the label on his cola bottle. "You've never exactly been subtle about how you feel about me."

"So I have been told."

Tim elbowed him for interrupting.

"And I," he said. "Haven't ever told you to stop."

Damian waited, his heart stuck somewhere near his esophagus, for a but. When one didn't come, he swallowed and said;

"No, you have not."

Tim's hand ( gloved, cool from the Zesti, almost imperceptible through his leggings ) fell gently on his knee.

"Damian."

Damian looked down and was met with the clear, impossible blue of Tim's mischievous eyes. He'd lowered the whiteouts, so there was no mistaking the clear intent in his expression as he leaned into the former assassin's space.

He stopped, less than an inch of space between them, but still enough for either to pull away if they wanted to.

Damian erased the distance, finally kissing Tim's petal pink mouth.

It wasn't perfect. The angle was wrong and their lips were equally chapped. Noses bumped, prompting soft huffs of laughter, and there was nothing to do with their hands because of the damn cola bottles. But it was a good kiss anyway, as were the chaste few that followed, because it was Tim. Damian was finally kissing Tim.

Their foreheads pressed together, still a little awkward with the angle, and they shared a smile.

"Father should be out another hour or two."

"Or we could just go back to my place," Tim murmured with a playful grin.

Damian's heart sped up. He ducked forward and stole another kiss, retreating just far enough for their lips to brush before he purred;

"I'll race you there, beautiful bird."