Chapter Text
Damian Wayne decided—within precisely thirty-four seconds of meeting Timothy Drake—that he despised him.
It happened on a Monday, which was already bad as it is, but it was even worse.
It was a doomed day: Kory Anders was late because of a Milan red-eye, Donna Troy was muttering about bad lighting, and the Titans Magazine creative floor smelled like coffee and crushed dreams. Damian had only been the lead junior designer for three months, and he had no patience for incompetence, especially when it arrived dressed in soft sweaters and a messy camera strap.
Timothy Drake walked in, head down, flipping through a contact sheet.
And then proceeded to spill an entire iced Americano across Damian’s sketchbook.
“Well,” Tim said, blinking at the spreading stain. “That was… gravity’s fault.”
Damian stared at the brown lake soaking into his croquis. “You—”
“I can buy you a new notebook,” Tim offered, already dabbing uselessly with a napkin that dissolved on contact.
“I do not need your charity,” Damian snapped. “I need you to look where you’re going.”
Donna snorted behind her camera. Kory mouthed be nice. Dick Grayson gave Damian That Look. The one that said play nice with the new photographer or HR will email us again.
Tim just pushed his glasses up and said, “Oh, so you’re Damian Wayne. I’ve heard about you.”
Damian bristled. “What, exactly?”
“That you’re intense,” Tim said simply, like it wasn’t an insult. “And kind of brilliant.”
It would have been flattering if it wasn’t infuriating.
Damian told himself for weeks that Timothy Drake was an irritation. Annoyingly competent. Distractingly quiet. He worked with this maddening, focused calm that made everyone else on the floor gather around his laptop, making interested little hums at his shots.
Damian pretended not to watch.
He pretended not to notice the way Tim adjusted Cass’s angle during a ballet-themed spread—gentle, respectful, nothing like the arrogant pretension he’d expected from a photographer recruited out of some award-winning independent exhibit in New York.
He pretended not to hear the way Barbara bragged about how Tim had doubled their online engagement in a month.
He pretended not to see the fake rhinestone Steph had glued to Tim’s camera as a joke, glittering like it belonged there.
Most of all, he pretended he didn’t have a problem.
The problem was this: Every time Damian sketched, the proportions drifted into Tim’s silhouette.
Not exactly—but enough. A sloped shoulder here. A narrower waist. Long fingers. A subtle set of the spine he only ever saw when Tim leaned over Luke Fox’s monitors to check lighting profiles.
He told himself it was coincidence.
Dick saw one of the drafts and raised an eyebrow. “You’re designing for a specific guy.”
Damian burned the page in the trash bin before lunch.
The turning point—though Damian would rather eat nails than admit it—came during the Spring Preview Run-Through.
Bruce Wayne himself was doing a rare walk-through of Titans Subsidiary, trailed by Lucius Fox, several assistants, and Jason Todd, who had strong opinions about leather sourcing and was definitely not here because Donna kept roping him into lighting tests.
Wally West and Duke Thomas, actual lighting crew, were arguing over whose diffuser sheet was missing (It was Bart Allen's fault).
In the chaos, one of Damian’s garment racks toppled.
Specifically, the one with his newest capsule line—structured but fluid, dark palettes with subtle jewel tones, sharp silhouettes softened by understated draping. Hours of work. Weeks of revisions.
And Tim—infuriating, oblivious Tim—was the one who caught a falling hanger before it hit the floor.
“Oh,” Tim said softly, holding up the jacket. “This is new.”
Damian swallowed. “Put that back.”
But Tim didn’t. He held it up to the light, brow furrowed in concentration. He traced the line of the lapel with his thumb.
“This is gorgeous,” Tim murmured.
Damian’s pulse tripped.
“It would look great on someone with narrower shoulders,” Tim added.
“Like you?” Damian demanded before he could stop himself.
Tim blinked at him.
Oh no, Damian thought.
Damian did not like this. No, of course not. He refused. He said absolutely not. Over his dead, fashionably dressed body.
Then Kory saw Tim holding the jacket.
“Anders,” Damian warned.
“Oh my stars,” she said.
“No.”
“Yes,” she declared. “Tim, try it on.”
Tim looked between them. “I don’t model.”
“You’re photogenic,” Donna said, snapping a picture before he could object.
“I’m behind the lens,” Tim protested.
Dick leaned in, grinning. “Dude. It fits your color profile.”
Damian choked. “His what?”
“His vibe,” Dick clarified, like that helped. “Also, Jason will pay me twenty dollars if you try it on.”
Jason, leaning against a lighting rig, lifted a hand. “What? It’s good content.”
Tim sighed.
Damian said, “Do not put that—”
Tim slid the jacket on.
It was over.
Damian felt something molten and humiliating tighten in his chest. Because it fit. Perfectly. The lines sat against Tim’s frame like they’d been drawn with him in mind.
Because they had been, some horrible honest part of him whispered.
Tim tugged the hem, looking almost shy. “How does it look?”
“Awful,” Damian said instantly.
Donna snorted so loudly she had to pretend it was a cough. Kory beamed. Barbara was already posting a teaser shot to the social media draft folder. Cass made a small approving sign with her hands. Even Conner muttered, “Dude. That’s runway-ready.”
Tim just smiled, small and crooked.
So weak, Damian thought, horrified. I’m so pathetically weak—
“Do you want pictures?” Tim asked.
Damian blinked. “Of you wearing my design?”
Tim shrugged, cheeks flushed but steady. “If it helps your portfolio.”
And that was how Damian Wayne, who hated Tim Drake, ended up standing on set while Tim modeled for him.
Only for test shots, Tim insisted.
Only so Damian could see the garment in motion.
Only because Donna kept directing him and Cass kept fixing the collar and Steph kept yelling “work it, sweetie!” from across the studio.
Damian barely breathed the entire time.
Tim was good in front of the camera. Surprisingly good. Natural. Unposed. The kind of good that made Donna hum under her breath with that I-found-a-new-muse tone Damian hated because he liked it too much.
Afterward, Tim helped him fold the jacket. Careful. Gentle.
“You know,” Tim said, quiet, “you’re not as scary as everyone says.”
Damian’s heart executed a complicated series of aerial maneuvers. “I am very scary.”
Tim smiled. “If you say so.”
They stood too close.
Someone—Dick, probably—wolf-whistled in the distance. Wally yelled that someone had unplugged the overheads. Jason claimed innocence. Garth blamed Garfield. Roy blamed Vic. Rachel sighed like she’d rather be anywhere else.
Tim glanced at the chaos and laughed under his breath.
Damian looked at him like an idiot.
And thought: I’m in trouble.
They didn’t talk about it after.
Tim went back behind the camera.
Damian went back to sketching.
But the next collection turned out… different.
Lighter fabrics. Softer lines. Colors he’d never used before. Things that made Tim look like he belonged in the margins of every page.
Donna caught him staring at Tim during a shoot and raised an eyebrow. “Subtle,” she said.
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Sure,” she said, unimpressed. “And Dick and Jason aren’t making heart eyes at each other when they think no one’s looking.”
Damian froze. “They’re what?”
“Mm,” Donna said, snapping another photo. “You’ll figure your thing out. Eventually.”
Damian doubted it.
He wasn’t even sure what Tim thought of him.
Annoyed? Tolerant? Bemused?
Interested?
Impossible.
Unthinkable.
…Not entirely unthinkable.
Sometimes—only sometimes—Tim would look at him across the studio, camera in hand, that small almost-smile tugging at his mouth.
And Damian would pretend he didn’t feel it like a shot of color blooming through grayscale.
One evening, long after everyone else had left, Damian stayed late sketching. The office was quiet, except for the hum of the city below.
He didn’t hear Tim approach until a cup of tea appeared at his elbow.
Damian glanced up. “…Why?”
“You forget to drink water,” Tim said simply. “Thought I’d intervene.”
Damian stared at him. “You don’t even like me.”
Tim tilted his head. “What makes you think that?”
“You spilled coffee on me.”
“That was a greeting,” Tim said, deadpan.
“An idiotic one.”
“Mm,” Tim agreed, sipping his own tea.
Silence stretched—comfortable, strangely enough.
Tim finally asked, “You’re designing something new?”
Damian hesitated.
Then he slid the page toward him.
A coat. Long, sleek, structured. Damian's usual green, but softened in edges. Subtle silver threading.
Tim blinked. “This is… really nice.”
“It’s not finished,” Damian muttered.
“Still,” Tim said, tracing the collar lightly. “It is.”
Damian’s breath caught.
Tim looked up.
For a moment, the world was soft and suspended.
Then Tim said, voice gentle, “I’d wear it.”
Damian’s heart did something catastrophic.
He looked away, pretending to fuss with a pen. “We’ll see.”
Tim’s smile warmed. “Yeah. We will.”