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Damian's guard isn’t lowered, necessarily, it never is, but Todd standing tall and imposing at his shoulder is an extra assurance of vigilance. Of protection. They have similar training, after all. Damian is confident in both of their abilities.
Besides, their current roof of choice for pre-mission recon is far too high for even Gotham's Rogues, let alone civilian criminals. It's the perfect vantage point; they can see their targets, but their targets can’t see them.
And it’s calm. Uneventful. A cool breeze carrying the scent of nighttime smog ruffling his hair.
So, Damian is… moderately unprepared when something yanks him by the back of his suit just below his nape and he’s suddenly no longer on solid ground.
He flails, a humiliating yelped protest escaping him as he struggles for all of two seconds before an unfamiliar instinct urges him still.
It isn’t part of any instinct either of his parents trained into him. It isn't even part of his natural fight or flight.
It perplexes Damian so much that, for once, he simply gives in. Goes limp, limbs hanging, mouth firmly shut. Something tingles along his nerves and down into his fingertips, but it isn’t a warning of danger.
A low, distorted voice hisses in the next moment, “Just me. Chill.”
Damian scowls at the Gotham skyline and does his best to fight the pout trying to form on his face. He does not pout. He refuses to.
He wants to spit Unhand me, or, Why are you picking me up like this, you heathen, put me down, this is ridiculous—
But nothing comes out. So instead, Damian steadies his breathing and waits for his heartbeat to catch up with the whole not in danger thing. His head is… weirdly quiet. Beyond the simmer of outrage at being handled like a misbehaving kitten.
Even then, it feels distant. Unimportant.
Todd clicks his tongue. It comes out as a strange burst of mechanical static, like a hiss. “False alarm,” he says, which doesn’t explain his actions in the slightest.
He goes to set Damian down, then seems to finally notice his peculiar silence. Todd shifts, backs a bit away from the ledge, and Damian comes face to face with the glaring red helmet.
“…I’m surprised you aren’t cursing my entire bloodline,” Todd says, suspicious. Damian gets the feeling his eyes are narrowed behind the Hood.
Damian frowns deeply. There’s a smaller-than-normal voice in his head screeching to fight his way out of the hold and press the tip of his sword to the underside of Todd's jaw. Until blood is drawn, until Todd learns his lesson.
The louder, newer part of him is really quite okay with what’s happening. And then there’s his fight or flight, still unsure what it’s supposed to be feeling in this situation. Seemingly unwilling to try and find out.
Three different instincts, each trying to supersede the rest, each darting back and forth and back again inside his head. Unsettled. It's unsettling.
All Damian manages to do is cross his arms. He can only hope he looks disapproving enough as he bites out, “Put me… down.”
It doesn’t come out very convincingly. Like even as he’s saying it, Damian himself knows it isn’t what he wants.
Which is ridiculous. Because he’s decided he hates this. Whatever this is. Whatever feelings it’s giving him.
So yes, he wants to be put back on his feet. Right now.
Todd ignores all of this. He stays like that, holding Damian up half an arm’s-length away in front of him, and stares. Damian counts up to seventy-two seconds before Todd shifts again.
“Well, that’s adorable,” he finally says, drawled and distorted but packed with enough mirth that Damian's hackles rise. Then, “One second.”
With his free hand, he reaches behind himself to press the release for his helmet. It's quickly removed, tucked between his arm and his side, and then Damian's looking at that infuriating smirk stretching his face.
Todd gives Damian a little shake, jostling his dangling legs, cape rustling against his back. Smug glee lights up his face.
“Just like a kitten,” the man says. Damian very nearly snarls; Todd just huffs. “Jesus, you’re cute.”
Then, before Damian can even begin to process the fondness in his tone and the offended incredulity it fills him with, Todd leans in, and kisses Damian's nose.
The fury on Damian's face shatters to make room for his shock, and he finds himself blinking furiously even as Todd pulls back to then kiss both of Damian's cheeks, his forehead, his chin, and lastly, a firm smooch right on his lips.
Damian’s face is hot by the time Todd finishes. Weirdly tingly in the cheeks. He stares, wide-eyed and gaping, at his brother as he pulls back.
“Count your lucky stars we’re busy, or else you’d be getting smothered, Baby Bat.”
What?
Then, without another word, Todd unceremoniously lets go, and only years and years of training allow Damian to land on his feet with nary a stumble.
It's not a far drop, not by any means, but yet again Damian is caught off guard. Wrong-footed. There’s a sort of floaty, pins-and-needles feeling in his limbs, and a warmth crawling up his nape.
It's humiliating.
Todd chuckles as he secures his helmet back in place and aggressively ruffles Damian's hair. Damian has just enough wherewithal to smack his hand away, though he’s still rebooting his brain and all the snappish attitude he relies on.
All he knows is one thing.
“Do not do that again.”
Todd pivots back to look out over the roof’s parapet. “Do what? Kiss you? Fat chance.”
Todd is a bastard.
“I’ll kill you.”