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Damian stood in front of the mirror, jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowed, as his fingers fumbled with the necktie in frustration. His hands moved through the well-practiced motions Alfred had taught him, and he was certain he was doing it right. He did everything right. With the dexterity to control the subtle twist of his wrist when wielding a sword—capable of delivering excruciating pain or swift death—surely he could manage a perfect Windsor knot. A knot he’d been tying impeccably for over a year now and he could not, for the life of him, understand why it had the nerve to defy him today of all damn days.
Letting out a frustrated growl, he let his hands fall to his sides and inspected the crooked knot and wrinkled silk fabric in the large, ornate mirror above his dresser.His tense face glared back at him with the chaotic disarray of his once meticulously arranged room reflected in the background. “This is absurd,” he snapped, stalking out of his bedroom, loosening the tie with one hand and crumpling it. His sock-clad feet thudded on the carpeted hallway as he headed toward Timothy’s room.
He knocked once but didn’t wait for a response, throwing the door open and stepping inside with a curt, “I need a tie.” Tim didn’t even look up from his laptop, his eyes darting between security feeds and the notes spread out before him. Damian glared at him, as if Tim were somehow responsible for his tie-tying skills failing him tonight, leaving the tie that had been perfectly matched to his tuxedo in tatters. Logic might dictate that Timothy had nothing to do with this, but Damian wasn’t in the mood for logic. If he had to assign blame, it was going to be Drake’s fault and that was the end of it.
“And I need sleep and a good excuse to skip this fucking gala, little D, but that isn’t happening,” Tim responded, blindly reaching for an energy drink somewhere on his right, his eyes glued to the screen.
Damian closed his eyes for a few seconds, summoning all his self-restraint. The only thing stopping him from flinging himself at Tim and taking out his frustration on him was the knowledge that his tuxedo would be ruined too. And blood was a nightmare of a stain, as Alfred often complained.
Peeling his eyes open and drawing in a breath so deep his nostrils flared, Damian noticed that Tim was still in a t-shirt and sweats, and by the smell of it, he had yet to shower. “Don’t call me that, Drake. Why aren’t you dressed?”
“Check the first drawer for ties, and stop talking. I’m trying to figure out a case,” came Tim’s absentminded response.
Damian considered informing Tim of the time but decided against it. He’d leave that to Father or Alfred. The thought brought a smirk to his face as he headed to Timothy’s dresser and pulled open the top drawer. His lips curled in disgust at the sight of ties carelessly tossed inside—no boxes, no dividers, no neatly rolled ties arranged by color, or fabric type. Only anarchy. Appalled, he slammed the drawer shut and rushed out of the room. With his options narrowing and the clock ticking, he made his way to his father’s room and knocked twice.
“Yes?”
“Father, I need a tie.”
“Come on in, chum.”
Damian gripped the doorknob with more force than necessary, turning it slowly as his thoughts circled around his family’s ridiculous habit of name-replacements. He loathed when his brothers called him "D," or worse, "little D." Even more, he despised when Father used "chum" or some other generic term of endearment—the same ones he had the audacity to also throw at Richard, Jason, and Timothy. And now, of all things, he had to ask Father for a tie. He would know something was off immediately, and Damian neither had the patience nor the time for an interrogation. As he stepped inside, he composed his expression into his well-practiced mask of neutrality.
Father was standing in front of his mirror, attaching cufflinks to his shirt. He was polished to perfection, as he always was when attending, and especially when throwing, a gala. Damian watched him finish with the cufflinks and glance in his direction through the mirror.
“Walk-in closet, Damian. On your right as you enter. You’ll see them.”
Nodding, Damian walked to the closet and spotted the perfectly organized assortment of ties. His eyes scanned them, and he felt his hopes dashed. None of them would work. Or rather, many of them would work, but none of them would be perfect. And today, of all days, he wanted perfection—he craved perfection—and his blasted nerves, clammy palms, and shaky fingers had to ruin everything... No. Tim. Tim had to ruin everything. Drake would pay for this, whether it was really his fault or not.
“What happened to yours?” Father asked, and Damian pursed his lips.
Damian’s eyes flicked to the crumpled ball of silk still in his hand. “I tied it wrong, and now it’s all wrinkled,” he said as neutrally as he could, tossing the balled-up tie onto the closet floor and reaching for one of his father’s that was closest to the emerald green of his original choice.
As Damian stepped back into the room, his father was staring at him through the mirror, eyebrows raised, while he finished adjusting his bow tie. “You tied it wrong? How did you manage that?”
“I don’t know, Father, but it’s getting late, and I need to finish getting ready,” Damian replied, doing his best to deflect the question.
“We have enough time. Come here; I’ll tie it for you.”
Damian walked begrudgingly to his father, determined not to risk ruining this tie as well. Standing in front of him, he wished he hadn’t had that last growth spurt just yet. Now he was almost at chin level with him, and avoiding his gaze while he tied the tie around his neck was more challenging than anticipated. Damian could feel his father’s penetrating gaze.
“Everything okay, son?”
“Yes, Father. I just ruined a tie; no big deal.”
“Okay,” his father conceded, but Damian read his tone for what it was, curious bordering on suspicious. Finishing the knot and adjusting it snugly at the base of Damian’s neck, father smiled at him. “There you go. Handsome as ever.”
“Thanks, Father,” Damian replied, glancing at his reflection in the mirror behind the man and internally groaning. This wasn’t right, but it would have to do. And he needed to leave. ASAP.
“By the way, Father, Tim is still in his ridiculous sleepwear, working on cold cases.” With that statement, Damian turned on his heel and walked out of the room, smirking as his father’s bellow of “Tim!” echoed through the manor.
Tim was already in the car, a freshly opened Red Bull in hand, when Bruce, Dick, and Jason hurried into the garage. Having claimed the front seat, Tim shot Bruce a vindictive look, his best resting bitch face on full display.
“Look who’s all sparkly, ready, and in the car by the agreed-upon time, B. Me. The guy you yelled at for five straight minutes about getting us all late! And who’s actually late? All of you!”
“Hn,” Bruce grunted eloquently as he settled behind the wheel.
“Three minutes isn’t late, Tim. Do you know why? Because we’re leaving twenty minutes earlier than we should, thanks to someone being paranoid,” Jason grumbled. “I don’t get why we even go to this damn Christmas Gala when we clearly don’t want to. This is absolute bullshit. We should decide for ourselves if we go or not; we’re grown-ass adults, for fuck’s sake! Well, most of us.”
“For a grown-ass adult, you could be whining a little less, don’t you think, Jay?” Dick shot back as he made himself comfortable, smoothing out his clothes.
“Yeah, Jason, you know it’s good for publicity and keeping—”
“ —up appearances, yeah, Tim, thanks for the memo! I’ve been hearing the sermon for three years longer than you have. Trust me, I’ve memorized it by now.”
“Here’s an idea,” Bruce interjected, already exhausted by the arguing. “Let’s make it to the Gala without a migraine! I know I’ll develop one before the night is over; I’ve made my peace with that, but if you four could—”
Three sets of eyes looked at him expectantly, each eager for Bruce to finish his sentence so they could be the first to retort, but Bruce just craned his neck to the backseat. “You’re not four. Where’s Damian? Dammit, we’re already late!”
“We’re not late!” Jason exclaimed. “It’s not feasible to be late, B! You’re making us leave twenty minutes earlier than needed, which is a grand total of thirty-five minutes before the damn thing even starts—”
“Where’s Damian?” Bruce cut him off, shifting his gaze to Dick as if he had the answer, but Dick simply shrugged.
Bruce growled as he pulled out his phone and dialed his son, eyes scanning the lit garage. His grip tightened on the phone when he saw the empty spot where his Rolls-Royce convertible should have been.
“Father?”
“Damian, where are you?”
“On my way.”
“I hope the omitted part of that sentence is ‘to join us in the car,’” Bruce said, hoping against hope that the night would proceed smoothly and uneventfully.
“I’m afraid it’s not, Father. But I assure you I am, in a broad sense, on my way to the gala.”
“Did you take the Rolls?” Bruce asked, andTim’s eyebrows shot up as he turned to throw questioning looks at his brothers in the backseat.
“Well, of course, Father. It’s the Christmas Gala.”
“To which we were supposed to go together,” Bruce said, his tone indicating frustration. “All together, with my car, in which we all are, except for you!”
“All valid points, Father. I assure you I will join all of you, despite the slight alteration of the plan.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. So much for avoiding a migraine. Jason was already snickering in the back, while Tim wore a shit-eating grin and stared at Bruce with a look that seemed to say, ‘Who’s late now, B?’
“Damian, it’s important to make an appearance together as a family. They’re expecting me to appear with ALL of my sons!”
“Well, Father, you have three son-wannabes in the car with you. I know it’s not the same, but they’ll have to do until I arrive.”
Jason’s barking laughter almost drowned out Tim’s “You little shit!” and Richard’s “Damian, we’ve talked about this…” Bruce nearly whimpered. Whimpered. He could remain stoic no matter the adversities, pain, or villains he faced, yet it only took three minutes in a car with four-ish Robins to make him goddamn whimper.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he sighed.
“Remember that next time you get your Robin fever, B,” Jason snarked and Dick snorted before high-fiving him, while Tim flipped Jason off. Bruce’s eyes turned upward, but no divine intervention appeared.
“Damian, today of all days you cannot be late!”
“I’ll only be fashionably late, Father. Todd will likely cause a scene before you four even step inside; nobody will notice. I’ll be there in 65 minutes—possibly 57 if you hang up and let me focus on driving.”
Bruce grunted and ended the call before turning the key in the ignition. When Tim opened his mouth, Bruce raised a single finger. “Not a goddamn word until we arrive!”
“Fifty-six minutes,” Damian said with a smug smirk, linking hands with Raven.
“What?” Raven asked, her crimson lips twitching upwards as she looked up at him. Even in her heels, she was shorter than him now, and Damian decided he was pleased with the timing of that last growth spurt after all.
“Never mind,” he told her with a shake of his head, and his eyes bored into hers. “Are you ready?” He watched Raven’s gaze drifting to the red carpet a few feet away, where reporters and photographers lined each side, their cameras flashing as the Gala’s attendees made their way to the five-star hotel’s entrance.
“Just hold my hand and don’t let me fall,” she said, turning her eyes back at him. “I’m still not used to these stupid high heels.”
“You look gorgeous in those stupid high heels,” Damian informed her, drawing her closer, his hands resting on her waist and feeling the smooth silk of her emerald dress against his fingers.
“And you look delicious in that tux,” she shot back, her hand raising to cup his cheek. Damian tilted his head, leaning into her touch and inhaling her perfume. “Are you ready?” she asked, her tone knowing, and Damian sighed inwardly, despite having accepted that she could read him like an open book.
“I think you already know the answer to that,” he answered in that soft tone he reserved just for her. “I mean, you’ve met my imbecile brothers.”
“But it’s not your brothers you’re worried about.”
It was a statement, and Damian pursed his lips, averting his eyes for a few seconds. No. It wasn’t. “Rae, I’m never going to be fully ready for this. But we’re doing it anyway. I’m being childish, I get it. I just…”
Raven cut him off by brushing her lips against his. Damian’s eyes fluttered closed as he tilted his head lower, resting his forehead on hers, their noses just touching. He breathed in her scent—a sweet floral aroma mingling with notes of vanilla—and his mind went blank. He inwardly cursed the effect she had on him even as he savored the feeling.
“I’m the one person you don’t have to explain yourself to, Damian.”
“You’re the one person I want to explain myself to, Rae,” he whispered.
“If you’ve changed your mind, I can get back in the car and drive home. No questions asked, no drama,” Raven offered, her sincerity clear.
Damian shook his head. “No. I asked you to come, and you said yes, even if it was last minute. We’re going through with this. You’re one of the most important parts of my life now, and he’ll have to deal with it.”
“Well… let’s not keep him waiting any longer, then,” Raven murmured. Damian had to summon all his willpower to straighten his posture and put a few more inches between them.
He took a steadying breath and linked hands with her once more, their fingers intertwined. Together, they stepped out of the shadows and into the harsh, bright spotlight. Damian smoothly tossed the Rolls-Royce keys to the valet, who caught them with a practiced flick of his wrist and stepped back with a respectful nod. As he did, Damian settled into his signature poker face.
He glanced at Raven, admiring how gracefully she moved beside him, her face radiating confidence as if she’d done this a thousand times before. The only sign of her discomfort was her hand gripping his a bit tighter than usual, while the cameras' incessant clicks and sharp flashes swirled around them. Damian discreetly caressed the back of her hand as they approached the ornate glass doors, focusing entirely on the soothing warmth of her hand in his.
Jason was already tugging at his tie, loosening it with one hand while clutching a whiskey glass like it was a lifeline with the other. He glared around the room, annoyed with everything and everyone, cursing his luck for having to spend his evening here. No, not just having to—choosing to. Damn Bruce and his queen-B persona. There was nothing more boring than Wayne galas. What was most annoying was that they used to be fun before Bruce started dragging Dick and then the rest of them along. He’d done his research; he’d seen the papers from all those years ago. He knew the crap Brucie was pulling back in the day. He’d have gladly joined one of those galas, but that ship had sailed as Bruce mellowed down his persona more and more with each new kid he acquired. He glanced to his right and thanked all the gods that Dick and Tim were there with him—though he’d rather lose a limb than admit that out loud.
Glancing around and still not spotting Damian, Jason frowned. If D planned to bail he could at least tell him and then he’d have an excuse to also bail. Little selfish shit. Checking his watch he then elbowed Dick. “Where the hell is the little shit?”
“I have no idea,” Dick said tiredly. “I don’t get why you all assume he tells me everything!”
“Yeah,” Tim snorted. “Such an enigma. Puts the Riddler’s riddles to shame.”
Jason ignored the rest of their bickering and craned his neck to see who was joining the party. Cameras outside were flashing like crazy, and reporters were swarming behind two figures. When the large glass doors slid open, Jason promptly spat out his scotch, his eyes widening.
Dick and Tim next to him turned to look with a mix of disgust and surprise before glancing at where he was pointing through his coughing fit.
“Hey, no fair!” Tim protested, glaring at Damian and Raven, who were casually walking in. “I thought we were banned from bringing dates to galas after Dick’s and Cory’s scandal last year!”
“I love how the only one of us still legally obliged to listen to B is the only one with the balls not to,” Dick mumbled, shaking his head.
“Hey, I’ve got the balls alright,” Jason shot back, his voice still hoarse from coughing.
Tim snorted. “Yeah, but you’ve been single practically as long as Damian has been seeing Raven.”
“Fuck off, Nancy Drew,” Jason grumbled. “I date… just different women, only once, and with very specific dating activities involved.”
“And you guys call me a whore,” Dick snorted.
Tim sipped his champagne and rolled his eyes. “You are the whore, Dick, don’t kid yourself.”
“Okay, B is either having a stroke or mentally rewriting the will again,” Jason said, stifling an amused chuckle. “This is far more entertaining than I expected.”
Tim and Dick followed Jason’s gaze, with Tim letting out a chuckle and Dick biting his lip to stop himself from laughing. Bruce stood still, staring blankly at Damian and Raven, a frozen smile plastered on his face.
Jason watched as Damian moved in their direction, casting a glance towards Bruce’s general vicinity while maintaining his poker face. No wonder Damian always won their poker marathons.
“Raven, fancy seeing you here,” Dick said dryly, giving her a look.
“I told you I had a thing tonight, didn’t I?” Raven replied to Dick with an angelic expression. Jason mentally noted that he’d tease Dick later about how his eyes looked as exhausted as Bruce’s did when dealing with the four of them. He also made a second mental note that if he ever led a team of heroes, bullheaded teenagers would never be allowed to join.
“You clean up nicely, goth girl,” Jason quipped, causing Damian to narrow his eyes at him.
“And you could use some polishing, Jason,” Raven retorted, her eyes scanning him from head to toe before clicking her tongue. “Your tie is awful and your shirt is stained.”
Jason smirked. “From laughing so hard when you two lovebirds walked in and nearly gave B a coronary.”
“So, what’s this, lil’ D? The worst teen rebellion in history? An engagement announcement?”
Jason’s eyes widened as he covered his mouth. “Oh my god, is she pregnant?”
Dick sputtered his drink and frantically grabbed both of Raven’s hands, scanning her fingers for rings and eyeing her belly.
Jason’s laughter was only outshone by Raven’s.
“From this moment on, I officially identify as an only child,” Damian declared.
Tim’s face split into a pleased grin as he glanced behind him. “I have a feeling you’ll reconsider in 3—2—1—Hey, B! Having fun?”
Jason tried—he really tried—not to laugh at how Damian’s face turned three shades of gray before he managed to school his expression and turn to face Bruce.
“Father,” he greeted casually.
“Damian, how nice of you to join us,” Bruce said pleasantly. Too pleasantly. Smiling down at the kid, and Jason knew that this particular expression roughly translated to: I could break my moral code and kill you right now, so thank your lucky stars we have an audience .
“Always one to make an entrance, our Dami,” Jason said with a grin, slapping a hand on Damian’s shoulder.
“One might say little D was late,” Tim added pointedly, arching an eyebrow at Bruce, who drew an audible breath—likely just to keep his cool, Jason imagined.
“Hardly, Timothy,” Damian answered in a clipped tone before turning to Jason. “And kindly remove your hand, Jason, before I remove it for you. You’ll wrinkle my tux.”
Jason did remove his hand, waiting patiently to see who would address the elephant in the room—the elephant being Damian’s emo girlfriend, who looked like she was enjoying this as much as he was.
“Bruce, this is Raven. She’s—” Dick started after a few seconds of awkward silence, only for Damian to turn on him with a murderous glare.
“Don’t you think it’s my job to introduce Raven to Father, Richard?”
“Oooh, he Richard’d you, Dick. That can’t be good,” Raven’s unexpected voice rang out, drawing all eyes to her, though she was still focused on Dick, who stared back at her, unimpressed.
Turning to Bruce, Raven extended a hand and flashed him a charming smile. “I’m Raven, Mr. Wayne. I’ve heard so much about you. Nice to finally meet you.”
Damian was watching the interaction, seemingly holding his breath. Jason wondered if he was more angry at Dick or shocked by Raven. Tim’s, “Oooh, heard that ‘finally’ tactically thrown in there, little D? That can’t be good,” cleared things up for Jason—because now he knew, Damian simply wanted to murder Tim. Which was nothing new, really.
Bruce’s handshake with Raven saved Tim from an untimely demise and drew all eyes to him. “Raven, it’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
“Well, it’s worth mentioning that’s not her everyday face, though, because R—”
Damian’s elbow slammed into Jason's diaphragm, shutting him up instantly. Jason reached to slap Damian on the back of the head, but Bruce’s quiet “Boys”—just loud enough for their group but carrying the Pavlovian weight of years of training and crime-fighting—made them both straighten up and pull it together.
“Let’s all remember last year, yes? I cannot stress enough how much I do not want our family name filling the tabloids with anything other than ‘Who was the best-dressed Wayne?’ tomorrow,” Bruce stated, letting his words linger. Jason had already thought of three different, and frankly much more interesting, headlines, but he still couldn’t talk after the brat's hit.
Turning to Damian, Bruce continued pointedly. “Let’s not give Tim any reason to frame more front pages.”
“I am not Richard, Father,” Damian said through gritted teeth, his cheeks reddening.
Serves the brat right, Jason thought.
“Mr. Wayne, please,” Raven interjected with a scoff. “I doubt Damian has ever given you reason to worry about decorum—at least not at a gala.”
Jason coughed out a snicker as she raised an eyebrow at Bruce, who simply gaped at her. Discreetly bumping Damian’s shoulder, Jason gave him a subtle thumbs-up when he looked at his direction. The kid had scored.
Bruce only blinked at her and Raven flashed him a charming smile, hooking her arm around Damian’s elbow. “I’d love to see that framed cover one day, by the way. Dick has conveniently never mentioned its existence.”
“I can totally text you a picture,” Tim piped up with a grin, while Dick pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Now, if you’ll excuse us, Damian has promised me champagne, dancing, and a night free of family drama. I’m looking forward to experiencing the gala’s finest offerings, and I assure you, we’ll uphold the evening’s dignified spirit.” Pausing she shifted her gaze from Bruce to Dick and clicked her tongue. “I’m afraid I can’t make any promises about Dick, though.”
“One more word, and you’re so benched, Rae, I swear to god,” Dick groaned, but Damian’s sudden laugh made all four male heads snap toward him in surprise. Jason tried to remember if he’d ever heard the kid make that sound before. Snorting? Sure. Snickering? Occasionally. Chuckling? Rarely. But Damian al Ghul Wayne laughing? That was a first.
Bruce was the first to recover, his face softening, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time that evening. “Stick to one glass of champagne, please,” he instructed, locking eyes with Damian, who returned the smile and nodded.
The soft music from the string quartet mingled with the delicate aroma of the floral arrangements, filling the room. The warm glow of candles melting slowly in their golden holders cast a soft light, creating an atmosphere Damian could admit—even if only to himself—was beautiful. In the seven years he’d lived with his father, in the seven years he’d been attending these galas, he had never once paid attention to such details. But then again, he was certain the only reason any of this registered now was because of Raven. She noticed these things, pointed them out, and he found himself connecting everything beautiful, everything pleasant around them, with her. With them.
He glanced down at her face, her violet eyes reflecting the fairy lights on the ceiling of the ballroom. Drawing her closer, their bodies moved in perfect sync. Her silk dress swayed gently, and a perfectly curled strand of black hair framed the left side of her face. Damian’s eyes traced the contour of her neck, landing on the small tattooed bird that met his gaze. A fond smile tugged at his lips at the memory it evoked, and he leaned forward, planting a soft kiss on it.
“Thanks for inviting me tonight,” Raven said softly as they continued slow-dancing.
“Thanks for agreeing to come. These events usually bore me to death.”
“Even with the circus squad?”
Damian chuckled. “Even with the circus squad.”
“They're nice… in a weird kind of way,” she told him, and Damian wondered why the statement made him feel all warm inside. “Your dad seemed pretty chill as well.”
“Keyword: seemed,” he retorted, glancing at his father, who was discreetly observing them with his usual unreadable expression. Shocker.
“You think he hated me?”
“Nobody could hate you, Rae,” Damian replied coolly. “And no, he doesn’t hate you. But he can’t stand not having complete control, especially over me and my brothers. And to him, you’re an unknown variable.”
“Unknown variable… Hmm, I can vibe with that,” she said with a playful smirk, and Damian chuckled again. The sound had stopped feeling foreign to him when he was with her.
“I expected nothing less, Rae,” he said as he spun her under his arm, her laughter light and infectious as it filled the room. “He’ll eventually accept this. Just like he’s accepted Richard’s army of girlfriends, Timothy’s situationships, and Jason’s friends with benefits.”
“No such thing as healthy boundaries in the Wayne household,” Raven quipped, and Damian snorted, the warmth of the candlelight casting a soft glow on her features.
“No such thing as healthy anything in the Wayne household. Need I remind you that we dress as birds, bats, and fairy-tale characters and beat up bad guys as a hobby?”
“Who’s the fairy-tale character?” Raven asked, her eyebrows furrowing for a moment before she burst into laughter, the sound mingling with the soft strains of music from the string quartet. “Never mind.”
They continued to sway on the dance floor, lost in their own world the subtle scent of roses from the floral arrangements lingering in the air. The minutes seemed to stretch and blend together as they moved in sync, the ambiance of the ballroom becoming a distant backdrop to their shared space.
“Hey, Rae?”
“Yeah?”
“The music stopped.”
“And?”
Eyes locking with hers, he let out a breathy laugh and shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Never mind.”