Ships Adrift in a Strong Tide

Undefined

Twenty year old Damian Wayne removed his bat-eared cowl in the sanctity of the Batcave. He felt the annoying urge in the back of his jaw to yawn. Irked, he gritted his teeth together to resist it.

"Nice job tonight."

Damian turned to his adoptive older brother. "I know." He removed the cape and utility belt, reaching for the pair of comfortable pajamas Alfred left for him.

"You're so comfortable in the cowl. Going back to the Robin gig after this must seem... childish." Nightwing tossed his domino mask unceremoniously on the ground, yawning.

The young Wayne scowled at the offending cloth and folded his cape meticulously. "It doesn't matter to me which persona I improve."

Nightwing shrugged and turned to his own pile of clothing. "I'm just saying." He lifted his shirt at the hem and Damian kicked off his boots. "Filling in while your dad goes to his fancy parties must kinda suck."

"It's for the good of the entire operation. It has little to do with my feelings on the matter." Spandex bottoms off, sweatpants on. Resist the urge to yawn.

"Don't you want to move up in the ranks, though? Going from Robin to Batman back to Robin... seems like a downgrade."

"There can be only one Batman at a time. I have no desire to usurp my father's mantle." Damian hooked his fingers under the black Kevlar-Nomex blend and pulled it over his head. He stretched his back, testing the soreness of a muscle he pulled from getting jerked around on the jump line. It would hurt tomorrow, but for now it hardly ached.

"Hey! Are those scratch marks?"

Damian glared at Dick, now dressed in flannel pants similar to his own and a thin t-shirt, over his shoulder. "What?"

"Down your back," Dick elaborated, stepping closer to his brother.

"I don't know. Possibly," the twenty-year-old mumbled, grabbing his shirt and tugging it on, covering the offending marks defensively.

"Wait, wait." Dick lifted Damian's shirt over his shoulder blades. "Those aren't from a fight."

"Stop that, Grayson." Damian swatted his brother's hand away and pulled his shirt down, fixing him with a glare as he turned to keep his back sheltered. "It's nothing."

"Nothing, huh?" A knowing grin flashed across Dick's face. "Looks to me like Little D's got himself a girlfriend."

Covering his fierce blush with a scowl, Damian grumbled, "Don't call me that."

"You do!"

"Don't... be so excited about it. It's annoying."

"Who is it? How did you meet her? How do you meet anybody, actually? All you ever do is skulk around the Manor. Does Bruce know?"

"Grayson," Damian snapped. "No one knows. I'm not even sure that she—"

"Are you kidding me?" Dick spluttered incredulously. "Girl marks you up like that and it's not even official?"

An icy glare swept over Damian's features before he returned to a largely indifferent, if slightly annoyed, look. "I am not going to discuss this with you any further." He began walking toward the elevator that brought him up to the living quarters of the manor.

...

The next morning—morning in the relative terms of night-prowling vigilantes—Damian was hoping that his boisterous older brother would have forgotten about their previous night's exchange.

No such luck.

Dick, Damian, and Dick's daughter Mar'i were seated at the first three seats of the long table that sat in the Persian-rugged, French-windowed dining room.