Work Text:
Damian appreciated art.
Art was the purest and freest way to express experiences, ideas, and emotions without having to name them specifically.
Damian also made art.
He poured his soul into every canvas and every sheet of paper that filled the corners of his room and his studio. In the League of Assassins, it had been difficult to express himself, though never impossible thanks to his mother's efforts. Even so, he had not had the freedom he now enjoyed in Gotham.
Here he had a studio all to himself, a place where he could lose himself for hours among brushstrokes, pigments, and silence.
Anyone who entered that room could appreciate his works:
beautiful landscapes, majestic animals, and, most importantly, his family.
He had painted each member with his own hands. Even Drake had a few paintings dedicated to him.
However, there was one silhouette that stood out above all others.
A large figure, almost always tinged with red.
To anyone else, it was oppressive.
To him... it was simply his favorite person in the world.
The one who discovered his talent for drawing and encouraged him.
The one who saw how much he cared about the lives of animals and didn't see it as a weakness.
The one with a warm voice present in every memory of his childhood, good or bad, a voice that just hearing it made everything better.
Damian was not ashamed to say that he loved his older brother.
His current family did not know it, but the few members of his maternal family understood that if there was one soul on earth to whom Damian would willingly bind himself, it would be Jason's.
He couldn't remember when he had stopped looking down on the person he thought of as his mother's new pet and simply started to adore him.
He didn't regret the change in their relationship.
Only the time he had wasted because of his childish pride.
Jason was his muse.
And no... not in the romantic way that many artists love their inspiration.
Jason was his brother.
His ahki.
Although they didn't share a single drop of blood, he was still his mother's eldest son.
He would always be his brother.
Just because he wasn't a romantic muse didn't mean there was any less love in that title.
On the contrary.
Damian's devotion was silent, absolute... irrevocable.
His grandfather surely disapproved of that attachment.
But even he had been unable to avoid becoming fond of the owner of that soul that disarmed them all.
Damian was an artist.
One who traced his muse with desperate, silent devotion.
He knew his family wondered who that figure was whose presence dominated the room even in his absence.
He knew they left his studio with the same question:
Who had the honor of appearing in his works more often than they did?
Who was this person they recognized even though his face was never shown?
Of course, Damian could draw his brother's face.
He could do it with his eyes closed without forgetting a single scar, mole, or expression line.
But he couldn't do it at the mansion.
He couldn't reveal the secret of his resurrection.
Not when his brother had chosen to remain with his family in the League.
So, although everyone recognized when he was drawing his muse,
no one knew that familiar silhouette was Jason Peter Todd.
Now renamed:
Jason Farid al Ghul.
Unique. Incomparable. Unmatched.
A name bestowed not by blood... but by love.
And Damian would make sure the secret remained intact.
The few times he had succumbed to the temptation to draw his face,
he had carefully wrapped each piece and sent it to his mother,
knowing that in her hands they would be protected and cherished as he himself would have wished to do.
Because someday...
when he would be reunited with his maternal family,
he could contemplate them alongside his most beloved person.
And then, perhaps,
he would no longer need to paint silhouettes to keep you close.