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“Hey, Dami, can I talk to you for a second?”
Damian did not want to talk. He wanted to sleep. It was eleven pm, with the first shift of the night coming in and the second shift heading out. He was sore from exertion, his heart rate elevated, and the Robin suit was soaked with sweat, which was making it cling to his body in ways he couldn’t stand.
All in all, he felt tired and gross. It was time for a shower and right into bed, especially since he had school the next day.
But Dick wished to speak with him, so Damian would oblige. He stood at attention, hands behind his back, rolling his shoulders to hopefully dispel the lingering soreness from a difficult patrol. Nothing life threatening, but definitely exhausting. “Yes?” He asked.
Dick smiled warmly, and waved him in closer. Damian moved into Dick’s personal space— he found that Richard often did this when he wanted to keep something a secret from Bruce, who was right across the room, typing up a report of their patrol at the bat-computer.
“Dames, tomorrow, before you go to school…" Richard paused, looking uncomfortable, jaw set in a strange way that looked like a mixture of discomfort and… pride?
"Yknow you're at that age where you should probably start shaving your face. I can show you how to, we can make it a bonding thing," Dick said, smiling.
Damian startled a little, his hand instinctively touching his cheek. He hadn’t noticed anything, but Richard clearly had. He felt his cheeks flush, embarrassment growing hot and sticky inside his chest. How unbecoming of him.
He’d known he’d have to start shaving regularly eventually, he wasn’t ignorant on the ways one’s body changed during puberty. But it was embarrassing to have to be told, in a way that felt like Richard was examining him like a bug.
“My apologies, Richard, I did not notice.” He hopped that would be enough explanation for his social blunder. Obviously the Wayne family was meant to be in good presentation at all times, and it was his duty as the blood son to uphold that standard.
“It’s no big deal, Dami, don’t worry about it. I can help you with it tomorrow before school, okay?” Dick said, his smile as warm as always, but it didn’t soothe the embarrassment still burning Damian’s chest cavity.
“You do not have to,” Damian said, “I’m sure I can figure it out on my own.” If it was truly, completely necessary, right now, Damian surely had the skills do it with no assistance.
“I know, but I’d rather help you. Knowing Bruce, he’ll hold off on teaching you until you practically have a beard.” Dick laughed like that was funny. Damian kept his face neutral. Personally, he thought that delaying this humiliation exercise would be just fine.
“Fine. I’ll be… going to shower now,” he said, awkwardly leaving with hot shame still tickling the back of his neck.
He grabbed his pyjamas out of his locker and turned on one of the showers. He was the only one here— Richard and Bruce would likely be up for hours still, and the others were out on patrol or home in their own safe houses for their own showers and beds.
He shed the Robin suit like an exoskeleton, the underlayers clinging to his skin and unwilling to let him go. He’d have to get it altered for the third time this year, it was short in the wrists and ankles again.
Father had expressed light frustration over his growth, teasingly telling him to stop getting so tall, or to at least slow down. Damian simply replied that he did not control the rate at which his bone cells divided.
Once bare, he looked at himself closely, but it wasn’t hard to spot the dark, fine hairs growing around his mouth.
Ew. No wonder Richard told him about this.
Whatever. He could deal with it tomorrow, right now he was sweaty and stunk.
The hot water felt like a balm to his sore muscles. He decided to luxuriate under the spray for a moment, letting it pound against his stiff shoulders and tense upper back. He didn't understand how people lived without billionaire-quality water pressure. He scrubbed all the gel out of his hair with a heavy amount of shampoo, running his fingers through the dark, thick strands until none of them defied gravity anymore.
His hair was so thick, that he'd always had part of it shaved off, just to remove the weight. Mother loved his hair, gushed over it, proud of its thickness and how fast it grew. While this was nice-looking on his head, he really hoped it wouldn't carry over to the hair on his body.
All of the products down in the cave were anti-bacterial, anti-fungal, anti-everything, to keep everyone from getting infected wounds. Damian appreciated it. He'd seen plenty of infected injuries— Todd had a particularly vile one a couple months ago, the disgusting slob— and he would really like to avoid them. He poured the body wash onto a loofah, squeezing it until it foamed into soft peaks. He kept the actual washing up part very perfunctory, though, because he was exhausted. Flopping down into his bed couldn't come soon enough.
He stopped the shower, dried off, and got dressed in his pyjamas. He rubbed the towel over his hair, making it stick up every which way again. He made sure to brush it thoroughly, because Richard always got on his case about brushing it while it was damp. According to him, it made it more manageable and would prevent knots.
He washed his face and brushed his teeth, avoiding looking at himself too much in the mirror. He had his mother’s hair, and her eyes, her almond-shaped eyes with bright green irises. And her skin, too— or, well, he would have her skin, if he didn’t have his father’s pubescent acne. His mom’s skin was clear.
Though maybe she hadn't had clear skin as a teenager either. Father said he would grow out of it, and he was hopeful that he meant within the next year or so. For right now, all he could do was wash his face regularly and try not to touch it much. Which was harder than it sounded.
He opened a drawer and found the box of pimple patches he'd been using at night lately. They worked really well, and weren't silly like the star-shaped ones.
Besides those features, he was a spitting image of his father. His nose, his jaw, his eyebrows— especially the eyebrows, apparently, Richard loved to comment that he looked just like father when he furrowed his brow in concentration.
He came out of the locker room, clean, dry and with his hair brushed back out of his face. “Good night, father, Richard.”
Bruce looked up from the computer screen and gave him that soft, tender look that wasn’t quite a smile. “Good night, Damian.”
Damian wondered if father had even noticed… anything about him lately. He seemed surprised every time Damian requested to have his suit lengthened, as though he didn’t notice Damian was 3 inches taller than he was just last year. It seemed impossible, but Damian supposed he was stuck in this body, and father was only an observer of it.
Richard noticed, and Damian didn’t know if he liked that more or less than father’s indifference. It was certainly uncomfortable to be noticed so much.
He laid down on his bed, reminded (as he usually was, because the thought was triggered by the action) that apparently most people here slept with a blanket. How inefficient, strange and unusual. Granted, the manor could get rather cold, but he simply wore long pyjamas. Blankets restricted movement in the event of an attack.
He ruminated on this, one hand underneath his pillow and one on top, his body half-turned on his side and half on his stomach, until sleep came quickly, and deeply.
— — — —
Damian assessed his environment. Dark, damp, cold… and yet familiar. Too familiar. He was likely underground, somewhere, he could tell by the staleness of the air, the smell of wet rock.
His face itched, really bad. He ignored it, giving it a cursory rub with his shirt sleeve, which didn't really help. He couldn't feel his feet moving, but his body was, down the dark, damp hallway that was unsettling familiar.
The walls began to change from rough, natural stone to smooth carved columns. The lights became brighter, a soft, gentle, unnatural green glow from the torches on the walls.
He knew this place, intimately.
He reached the central room, cavernous and dark, with the Lazarus Pit shining in the center, smooth and undisturbed as a mirror.
He looked to his left, and saw his mother, head bowed, her head covering obscuring her face. He wanted her to look at him. He wanted her to pull the cover back enough to see her eyes, mirroring his.
She didn't. His body continued to move without his will, pushing forward towards the noxious green liquid in the pool.
He looked over the edge. There was a body in the pool, tucked up into the fetal position. Breathing.
He recognized the face. It was his own.
He blinked and he was transported, surrounded by cold, wet, dark. His eyes refused to open, his chest barely took a breath. His body was scrunched, tucked up, his bony knees pressed to his chest in an attempt to be small, dainty. He held his ankles. He could not move. He could barely breathe. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to leave. He wanted to leave.
Please.
He was back, leaning over the pit, his robe— he now understands that it is a robe— removed from his shoulders. He did not want to enter the pit, but something pulls at him, compels him. He leaned further over the edge. The body in it did not stir. He leaned further.
He closed his eyes and he was back in the body, the other body, now restless and yet unable to move. His bones were locked, sticky, but the pain and desire to move was writhing inside of him like a worm, like a caterpillar in a chrysalis.
His head managed to thrash, to break free from whatever is keeping him still, and moving his head frees his shoulders as well. His muscles burn, the tendons stretching and pulling at the fibres, and his skin itself becomes restricting, burning, agonizing—
His arms reached up, desperate to swim, to turn belly-up and turn his face to the air and breathe, really breathe. He grabbed on, hard, his grip bruising, blinding, to the first object he could feel, digging his fingers in with unnatural strength, as a full gasp of air left his lungs.
He inhaled a lungful of thick, horrid water, filling them up, strangely warm.
He opened his eyes. There was no more body in the pit. He was no longer in the pit. He stood, stretched. The water rolled off his body, larger and stronger. He was no longer young, no longer old.
His face itched.
He looked down. The pool's reflection showed his face, his face but with a beard like his grandfather's, thick and dark. He was no longer himself. He was a soul, a battery, a life source, trapped in a vessel, unable to escape, he could not control his hands, he could not control his mouth, he was gone, he was gone, he was gone—
— — — — —
Damian woke up with a horrible gasp, heart hammering in his chest. He grabbed his face, running his fingers over the mostly-smooth skin.
He waited in silence for several seconds, letting the pounding of his heart in his ears slowly fade out into the quiet of the night. His breath came haggard and shaky, breaking through the tranquil darkness with harsh, ragged noise.
Dream. It was just a dream. A horrible one, but just… a dream. He took a deep breath, smoothing his hands back over his hair. He exhaled slowly.
Nightmares weren't a rarity for him, even if they usually weren't so vivid. He slipped out of bed, padding slowly to the bathroom. He flicked the light on, blinking rapidly as it blinded him for a moment.
The mirror held his face. Just his face, because he was in his own body, not in his grandfathers. He was not heir to the Demon's Head anymore. It was ridiculous to worry about it, and even more ridiculous to dream about it.
He touched his face again. He could still feel the phantom prickle of the facial hair from his nightmare. Or maybe that was the actual prickle of his actual facial hair. He shuddered. He wanted it off, now. He did not want to be reminded of his grandfather when looking at his own face.
Richard was supposed to help him tomorrow, but he didn't think he could wait. He was tingly all over with anxiety, and clammy with cold sweat. He'd sweat through his pyjamas so bad, he'd have to change them regardless. There was no way he could get back to sleep tonight.
He wanted Richard. Maybe it was childish— no, it was childish. To go running off to his big brother for comfort was completely childish, but sue him, he wanted it.
This… all this coming of age was putting a pit in his stomach. He knew that the plan for him was… was to be given to his grandfather once he was of age, to allow him to stay young for many more years. It made his gut sick to think about.
But that plan was not going to come to fruition. Mother sent him away to save him, he was here and he was allowed to grow up.
The thought was a pittance of comfort.
He looked in the mirror again, cautiously, prepared to see his grandfather's face overlaid his again. No such image appeared. But looking at his face made it itch and almost burn. He didn't like it, he wanted it off, he wanted to look like himself, he didn't want anything of his grandfather's on his face.
The longer he stared, the more the face in the mirror didn't look like him.
It's features seemed to shift, move and ripple like Clayface, it's eyes bulging, teeth elongating, coming in and out of reality until Damian had lost focus on what his face really looked like. Horns, a snout, snakelike eyes, he really was a demon, wasn't he? He really was the son of the Demon's Head.
Closing his eyes, he gulped down heavy breaths of air, lungs straining, too small and taught. It wasn't true, he knew it wasn't true, it was just his exhausted mind playing tricks on him. He didn't have horns, or a tail. He didn't have a beard. His body was his, smooth, not scaled or furred.
But his brain remained unconvinced. He flicked off the bathroom light and left, deliberately refusing to look at the mirror again.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. There was nothing wrong with just… going to Richard's room, was there? It was five in the morning, that wasn't too early. Richard could help him shave now, and then it would be done and he wouldn't have to keep feeling his grandfather like a ghost underneath his skin.
Mind made up, he headed down the hall, careful to be as quiet as possible, slipping into his assassin training to be light on his feet. Richard's room was at the end of the hall, nearest to the stairs. For some reason, his bedroom had a star painted on the door.
He knocked rather forcefully, the sound grating on his ears and the peaceful stillness in the manor. He waited a second, listening for the slow creak of Richard getting out of bed.
The door opened, revealing Richard, half asleep and also half naked. Damian would never understand his aversion to shirts at nighttime. He rubbed his eyes, scrubbed down his face and sighed.
"What's up?" He asked, voice deepened with sleep, "it's early, Damian, you good?"
Damian sucked in a breath. "Can you shave my face now?"
Richard blinked, raising his eyebrows. "Uh? It's five in the morning."
Damian pressed forward. "Yes. Can we do it now?"
"I— why now?" Richard didn't sound displeased, just confused. Good, the last thing Damian wanted right now was to make him upset with him.
He didn't want to explain why, but not explaining would be even worse, because then Richard would assume he was bothering him for no reason. Yes, it was best to get it out and over with. "I had a-a bad dream," he bit his tongue, cursing himself for letting his words stammer. "I… I would appreciate if we could do it now, yes."
Richard's expression softened, his brows knitting together carefully. "A bad dream? About what? Do you wanna talk about it?"
Damian chose not to correct his poor grammar. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, eyes cast downwards. Trying to speak about the dream was making the memories of it reappear, which set his skin tingling and his chest tightening.
Richard waited patiently, thank God, he was always so patient with everyone. Not like himself in the slightest, Damian was often told he had no patience. And he really didn't, not for emotions, at least.
He opened his mouth, gaping uselessly like a stupid fish, unable to have the words leave his throat. And worse, the longer he stood there, gaping, the stupider and stupider he felt, until his stomach was burning and his cheeks were red, his skin taken over by strange tingling and his ears hot.
This was so childish of him, so stupid of him to bother Richard like this. It was just a dream! He was twelve! And here he is on the doorstep, imitating a fish like he was some baby. His brows furrowed, anger rising in his chest now, in all the spaces that weren't already filled by embarrassment.
He felt something tap his forehead. Richard smiled done at him, all soft and kind. "Got lost in your head for a sec," he said gently.
The silence stretched, the clock at the end of the hall marking its seconds with audible ticking. Damian balled his hands up in his shirt. He felt the strong urge to rip it.
"You don't have to tell me about the dream," Richard said quietly, "if it's hard to talk about."
"It— it was about grandfather." He managed to get the words out his fish mouth. "And—and what was supposed to happen. With me being his heir."
Richard sucked in a breath. He reached his hands out and pulled Damian into a hug, so his face was pressed to Grayson's chest. Which, of course, was bare, and kinda smelled like sweat, so this was a little disgusting on Damian's end.
But he appreciated the hug nonetheless. Richard's hands held him tight, so tight and secure, and maybe it wasn't right to come here, but maybe it wasn't the worst decision in the world either. Damian relaxed a touch, the embarrassment and mental torment leaving his system now that he'd managed to say even such simple words.
Richard pulled out of the hug, looked down at him and smiled, "I bet thinking about growing up and puberty stuff made you pretty freaked out about the heir stuff, huh."
Damian turned his head, his cheeks burning red. Was it seriously that easy to tell exactly what was on his mind? He was an assassin for Christ's sake!
Not that any of that was completely true of course! He wanted to grow up, and it wasn't freaking him out. It was just… poor association. But he was absolutely not freaked out. Because he's literally twelve.
Damian scoffed, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest. "I was just wondering if you could teach me to shave now, instead of later."
Richard smiled. "Yeah, 'course. It'll be really quick," he said, walking back into his bedroom.
Damian followed, sort of wondering if this would be as quick as he claimed. Richard often spent hours getting ready, so perhaps his definition of quick was skewed. Damian didn't understand taking so long to get ready in the morning, really, all the preening and primping felt like a complete waste of time to him. It was inefficient.
Richard flicked the bathroom light on and, of course, his bathroom was a complete mess. So many products! They covered basically every inch of the counter, Damian couldn't help but roll his eyes.
"What do you even need all this for?" He scoffed.
Dick smiled, "you'll understand when you're a little older. All this stuff is really hot with the ladies."
Damian retched, sticking his tongue out and rolling his eyes in the most dramatic way he could muster for five in the morning.
Richard shoved most of the products to the side, opening a drawer and pulling out a steel razor, a small paper slip, and a can of shaving cream. From a different drawer he grabbed two clean washcloths.
"Okay, first of all," he grabbed the razor and held it up, "this is a safety razor. It's the best one to use and Bruce doesn't buy disposables anyway. You've got this part that holds the blade," he said, motioning to the head, where a razor blade was secured by a little metal cover, "you can change the razor when the blade gets dull by twisting the handle. I'll show you how to do that later."
Damian nodded. The device was straightforward enough, basically a razor with a handle.
"So, first step to a clean shave is wash your face," Dick said, turning on the sink and cupping water in his hands, before wetting his face. He grabbed a small handful of face wash and lathered it up, before scrubbing it over his skin. He moved aside and motioned with his head for it to be Damian's turn.
No problem, Damian washed his face every day and night, due to his aforementioned acne. After first pulling off his pimple patches (which were full of gunk, yuck), he got a good amount of wash and worked it into his face, moving aside to let Richard rinse off before doing so himself.
"Okay, next step, you get some hot water in a little cup," Richard said, filling up a small clear cup to the top with steaming water, "for rinsing off your razor between passes. Then you get some shaving cream—" he shook the can twice and sprayed a small mound into his palm, "you won't need to use much for right now, but I use about this amount." He spread it between his hands and started to apply the thick foam over his stubble, "make sure you get the neck too."
"Then you take the razor, and use short, little strokes—" He demonstrated the motion, closing his mouth in a weird expression to keep the skin tight. He started up at the top of his jaw, by his ear, moving down across his cheek. He paused and rinsed the razor off in the cup of water "—pulling the skin taught as you go. And make sure you go with the direction your hair grows, not against it. Like if the hair strand points down, make sure you move down across your skin. That prevents irritation."
Damian nodded, his skin was irritated enough, thank you very much. He did not need razor bumps on top of that.
With the clean razor, now, Dick moved the blade over his moustache and chin, going slowly and carefully. "And occasionally, dip the razor in the water to clean it off." Again, he swirled the razor around in the water after finishing around his mouth. He tilted his head back a little, beginning to shave the underside of his jaw and down his neck. "The Adam's apple can be a little tough but as long as you pull the skin taught it's not too hard," he said, demonstrating how to pull the skin in one direction with his fingers and shave in the other.
"And that's basically it!" He stopped and flashed Damian a smile. He looked really silly with half his face covered in shaving cream. "You'll probably cut yourself a few times on your first try, but that's okay, I have band-aids."
Damian had been wielding a blade with expert control since before he could speak, he was absolutely not going to cut himself. "Do I do it with your razor?"
"Uh, no, I have a new one somewhere." Richard knelt down and rummaged through the cabinet under the skin for a moment, random boxes and bottles spilling out all haphazardly. Damian rolled his eyes again. Would it kill his brother to be a bit more organized?
"Aha!" Dick said, grabbing a black box and popping it open, taking the razor out of the packaging. A new blade was already inside the cover. "There you go." He said, handing it off to Damian.
The tool felt heavy in his hand, solid metal. The handle was textured in a way he liked, little grooves that made it easy to grip. Call him particular, but Damian admired good craftsmanship, especially of blades.
"Okay, here, let's swap places." Richard said, touching Damian's shoulders to move him over in front of the sink while he stepped off to the side. "Start with the shaving cream."
Wanting to follow instructions to the letter, Damian shook the can twice before spraying it into his hand and oh god it came out so fast. That was way more than he meant to do. His hand now had a small mountain of fluffy, powdery-smelling foam.
Somewhat embarrassed, he washed his hand off in the sink, and tried again. He barely pushed down the button this time, and that yielded a much more manageable dollop.
He didn't have hair everywhere on his face like Richard, so he only put the cream around his upper lip and chin. He shut his mouth, curling his lip under his teeth to keep the skin as taught as possible, and slowly dragged the blade through the foam.
He could tell the blade was really sharp, but he had excellent control over all blades. After the first two strokes, he rinsed off the razor and continued.
"Perfect. See? It's not hard." Dick said, finishing up his own face beside him.
"I never thought it would be." He said. He found himself enjoying the ritual of this, the slow, careful strokes with the razor, the smell and texture of the shaving cream on his face. It was very soothing, very relaxing.
He continued to the other side of his face, determined to get all of the hair off in one sitting, so that he wouldn't need to repeat any of this again today. Though he might get in the practice of doing it daily, or almost daily, since he was really enjoying it. Even if he was mostly shaving off peach fuzz. Something about it felt… grown up. Mature.
Yes. That was it. It made him feel mature.
And comfortable, too, in his own skin. It settled his nerves from earlier and made him feel… more connected, to his body. To what his body actually looked like. No horns, no scales, just him.
He decided to try the more difficult areas like his jaw and neck, figuring getting in the practice now wouldn't hurt. He tried to do exactly what Dick did, tilting his head and pulling to keep the skin tight. Obviously he wouldn't know if he was missing spots, but he'd improve with time.
He was finished, now, because again he did not have much facial hair. He looked over at Richard, who was a mere two inches from the mirror, inspecting his face for something or other. Probably wrinkles. Grayson freaked out about having wrinkles. He swore, Richard was the vainest man he'd ever known.
Richard picked up a small razor, a completely different looking one than the metal one Damian currently held. It had no razor blade, only a single blade protruding straight out of the blue plastic handle. He ran it between his eyebrows, delicately flicking it to shape the space between them. Huh.
Damian cleared his throat, "I am done."
"Oh! Good," Richard stopped examining his face under a microscope and grabbed one of the washcloths, wetting it under the sink. He rung it out and handed it to Damian, "wipe off your face with this, then you can put on some aftershave, which is basically like lotion."
Damian wiped his face with the warm washcloth, rinsing it out once finished. Looking back up in the mirror, he noticed he somehow managed to cut himself without even noticing. It was small, barely even a nick, so he could ignore it.
Richard handed him a bottle of aftershave labelled with "hydrating" and "for sensitive skin" which was ridiculous. No part of him was sensitive. He'd never been sensitive to anything. He put some on his hands, the liquid thin and runny, but that made it easier to spread over his face. The cooling sensation soothed some of the irritation from shaving, and burned his cut.
He didn't flinch or anything, but Richard must've noticed the spot anyway. "Oh, let me get you a band-aid," he said, rummaging through the drawer, "you only nicked yourself once? Impressive." Damian tried not to visibly preen with pride at that.
He stuck the tiny bandage on his cut, smoothing it out so that it was fully covered. "What were you doing earlier? With your eyebrows?"
"Oh, I was just shaping them, cuz I don't like when they look too… y'know." He did not know. He assumed Grayson meant 'large' since he was removing hairs. "I can do yours if you want?"
Damian considered this idea for a moment. Was this something that he was supposed to do as well? Or, at least, would it help him maintain good form in the Wayne household?
Richard obviously knew what was right, what made someone attractive, and even though Damian didn't want to look attractive necessarily, he wanted to look his best. He was almost an adult, not a child, and if this is what he was supposed to do, then he'd do it.
Mirroring Grayson's ways of doing things had never lead him astray yet. It was… easier, to watch someone who'd learned how to be a teenager already, than to figure it all out for himself.
And, he supposed, practically, that if he didn't like it, they would grow back. There was no harm.
"Yes, why not?"
Dick smiled, "okay! Come sit on the toilet seat."
Damian did, tipping his face up and closing his eyes so Richard could begin. "Don't move," he said, "I don't want to accidentally shave half your brow off."
"Please don't." Damian said, as the small razor slid between his eyebrows. Dick moved carefully, with perfect precision and control, just like Damian would have expected of the first and best Robin.
"It might look kinda cool though, I thought lots of kids were doing eyebrow slits and stuff these days."
"I don't know, I try not to focus on the asinine fashions of my classmates."
"Good on you, don't follow the trends, be true to yourself." Damian rolled his eyes at Grayson's ridiculous kids-show-level inspirational messaging.
Everyone knew being true to yourself was something adults told stupid kids when they didn't want to admit they were weird. Father actually told Damian the opposite, that how he was raised would scare and hurt the other, wimpy kids in his school. He said that Damian should "focus on learning to socialize with kids his age" even though doing that was absolutely mind-numbingly stupid.
And he wasn't stupid, so he grasped pretty quickly that his "true self" was deeply off-putting to most American kids. Except Jon. But Jonathan Kent was an idiot in a whole different way, in a way that made him too thick to care that Damian was being mean to him.
Or maybe he knew, and he cared, but he cared about being friends with Damian more. Dumbass. Jon could make a million good friends, why would he want Damian's cruel, cold, violent nature?
Anyway, Damian would try to socialize for father's sake. Grayson had moved on and was now doing the last section of his brows, the upper part of the tail.
"Your eyebrows just connect right into your hairline," Dick muttered. "There we go. Nice and cleaned up." He used two fingers under Dami's chin to gently tilt his head back and forth, getting a good look at his work. Damian saw his small, gentle, proud smile. "That looks so good."
Damian got off the toilet seat, and leaned over the sink to look in the mirror. He wiggled his eyebrows and smiled.
"Silly. They look good right? You like em?" Dick asked. Damian quickly nodded, he thought he looked so much more put together. They were nice and clean and sharp like Richard's were.
"Okay, now you really gotta get ready for school. Quickly, if we wanna be on time." Dick said, checking his watch.
Damian's shoulders fell. "Yes. My apologies."
"Don't be sorry, Dames! I had fun! Let me know if you need any more help with shaving or anything." Richard said, ruffling up his hair. Damian batted at his hands as he left the bathroom.