Work Text:
The cool Bristol air drifted gently through the open window as Damian put the finishing touches on his latest watercolor. It had been a great afternoon for it; no crises, no homework, just Damian and the paint and the peace and quiet of an empty house. So nice to to just sit back and let the creativity flow. So relaxing.
“Hey Dami, did I leave that black-and-white coat last time I was here? Oh that’s pretty, who is it?”
So over.
Damian sighed and turned around. Richard had his “encourage normal hobbies” face on, which meant Damian wasn’t getting out of this without some well-meaning but overly heartfelt praise.
“Thank you,” he replied politely, “it’s no one in particular.” Just a painting of a man sitting on a park bench, with the light of a setting sun illuminating his face. Sue him, he’d felt a little bit romantic.
“Oh?” Richard tapped his chin. “It kinda looks like Kid Flash.”
Damian turned. He didn’t think the man on the easel looked like much of anybody. Just because he had dark skin and was dressed in a yellow suit. Richard probably just had Titans Academy on his mind, that was all. “No,” he said again, “just a random figure.”
Richard titled his head to one side. “But the guy has the little lightning bolt. It’s shaved into his hair, just like Ace, see?”
Damian looked back. While it was true that the man’s hair might look like there was lightning bolt, it was just the way the brush stroke had dried.
“Hmm, I don’t see it,” he said. “I haven’t seen your coat. Maybe ask father?”
Richard raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more about the painting. Damian had the distinct impression he was being humored.
“Sure thing,” his eldest brother replied, and closed the door behind him.
Damian glanced back at the painting. Richard was clearly seeing things. It was just an anonymous, made-up person, grinning up at the viewer with a gleam in his eye.
He’d take the painting to the marina in the morning. Drake could use some decoration that wasn’t salvaged from a junk heap.
*******
“Holy crap, is that Flatline?”
Oh, Damian was going to punch himself right in the face.
It was time for the sweep of Lazarus Island he, Ravager, and Hawke did every few months, to make sure no demons were bubbling up and nothing was coming back to life that shouldn’t be. It was also a good chance for Damian and Rose to compare notes about where their brother had last been seen. (Istanbul, murdering some black market organ traffickers and dropping the ‘merchandise’ at a local children’s hospital. Damian was slightly proud.)
He’d have to be doing that last one by himself from now on, though, because he was going to kill Rose Wilson where she sat.
In his bunglow.
At his kitchen table.
Leafing through his sketchbook.
Damian was an artist. It was one of the first non-violent activities he’d ever cultivated, and it was an intensely personal pursuit. Damian was also a growing young man, with all the...interests...that usually entailed. And while he felt nothing so plebeian as embarrassment, some works he simply didn’t intend to share.
Such as the page Ravager was beaming at with unconcealed mirth.
A barbarian woman in a fur garb stood in front of a dragon’s skull. She held aloft a scythe, which dripped blood down over a pale, and admittedly ample, bosom. It was a pulp adventure pastiche, which Wilson might know if she weren’t an utter philistine.
“That’s private,” he hissed, reaching for the book.
But Rose was faster, kicking back and flipping over the chair and out of arm’s reach. Damian went for the knife in his sleeve.
“Are you two fighting already?” A voice called out from the open door, where Hawke looked tired of them already, his duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
“Check this out,” Rose said, holding up the sketchbook.
Damian smirked. Hawke wasn’t the type make tawdry assumptions about anyone. He’d tell Rose she was being a fool. He’d tell her the subject’s white hair and face paint were obviously artistic flourishes. He’d tell her to give Damain his goddamn book back.
“Oh!” Hawke said brightly, and Damian’s heart sank. “Is this Nika? It’s really good.” His eyes slid downward. “And, uh, very. Complimentary.”
Rose cackled, and Damian let the knife fly.
*******
Damian was grudgingly willing to admit that, as adopted siblings went, his weren’t the absolute rock-bottom worst. That title undoubtedly went to the horrible little twins Superman had dragged back from his trip to space and inflicted on Jon.
Damian had brought scans of his latest pieces to show his friend when he went to Metropolis to hang out. He hadn’t known Jon would be watching his younger siblings, but they could work around that. Order some pizza, put on a movie to distract the babies, play some violent video games, and show off Damian’s superior artistic skills.
He’d been especially proud of the gladiator piece. It depicted a tall, slim warrior, with black hair and electric violet eyes, sweat glistening on his lean musculature, standing triumphant over a foe writhing in the tangles of a net. Jon had given some well-meaning but inexpert feedback and offered richly-deserved praise before the buzzer signaled the arrival of the delivery man.
As Jon left to get their food, Otho, who was an abominable little goblin who should have been left to rot in outer space, had looked at Damian with condescending pity in her twelve-year-old eyes.
“He already has a paramour,” she said, like the snot she was. “You can’t really expect to compete.”
*******
“And it’s all anyone seems to think!” Damian ranted, with an angry swipe of his pencil for emphasis. “’Ooh, you drew your friend so well!’ ‘Ah, you must really like him!’ ‘I hope she appreciates it!’”
“People have such dirty minds,” Colin agreed solemnly. He shifted in the bed a little, so the sunbeam from the picture window shone across his chest. “This alright?”
“That’s great,” Damian said, before his voice darkened again. “You know what Maya said to me? She said my painting of that sailor ‘looks like Suren as a sexy pirate’!” Ridiculous. “It was clearly an English naval officer, just because he had brown skin and long flowing black hair and an angry disposition doesn’t mean his face looked anything like Suren, and the shirt needed to be open at the front! How else could the viewer see his injuries from the shipwreck!?” He’d have thought Maya would know better.
Colin tutted. “The nerve,” he said, as he adjusted the sheet around his hips.
“Thank you, that’s what I’ve been telling people. Lift your arms, would you?”
Obligingly, Colin folded his arms behind his head. He looked like the picture of debauchery, luxuriating in the silk bedclothes, early morning light painting his muscular form a rich gold and making his hair shine brilliantly.
Damian nodded approvingly. “Hold that pose.” He began sketching, wanting to get every beautiful detail. “And don’t even get me started on the wretched little Kent girl.”
Colin snorted. “Kids these days.”
“I know! Now,” Damian looked him up and down, “look at me like you want me to pour wine all over you and then lick it off.”
Colin hummed, bit his lip a little, and inclined his head, fixing Damian with an expectant, slightly amused gaze.
“That’s perfect.” He sighed in relief. “Thank you for being the only one I can count on to be normal.”
“Any time, D,” Colin assured him. “Do you think I should lose the sheet?”
Damian thought about it for a moment. “Hike your leg up a bit to show off some thigh, but keep it on for now. The last thing I need is to give people a reason to think this is somehow weird.”
“Right. Can you even imagine?”