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Damian Wayne glowers at the husband and wife who’ve cornered Timothy Drake. He doesn’t have to hear what they’re saying to know that they’re propositioning Drake.
Tt. How blind are they?
Isn’t it blatantly obvious that Drake isn’t interested? That he’s never been interested?
It’s repugnant how men, women, and men and women continue to press themselves upon Drake.
Normally, Damian would let Drake handle the matter. For all that he isn’t Batman’s blood-heir, Drake has proven surprisingly competent over the years. He has rarely needed anyone — let alone Damian — to rescue him. It’s one of Drake’s better qualities.
However, to anyone who knows him well, Drake’s faux-polite society mask appears like it’s about to shatter. Damian only recognizes it due to association. It has nothing to do with Drake himself or caring about Drake; Damian is merely superiorly observant.
He downs the rest of his champagne — it’s horrific; they need a new sommelier for the next gala — sets his glass on the tray of a passing server, and ignores everyone who attempts to garner his attention as he closes the distance.
Father — and Mother and Grandfather before him — taught Damian the importance of staying focused on a mission. He’ll not allow himself to be distracted by discussions of stocks or yachts or inane frivolities.
It’s unspoken code that they will always have each other’s back.
Damian refuses to fail at such a succinct directive when the others excel at it. Waynes and al Ghuls don’t fail. Failure is for people of inferior breeding and self-control.
“—join us for the night?” the man says, lightly stroking Drake’s hand.
Drake’s legendary self-control is cracking at the seams. He’s been struggling since … the undercover mission. If Damian had still been younger — with the proper build — he would have demanded the mission for himself. But he isn’t.
When Damian reaches the group, he slides his arm around Drake’s waist and pulls Drake against his side; that Drake allows it without a fuss, merely melting into Damian, tells Damian exactly how close Drake is to falling apart at this kind of unwanted attention.
“Propositioning the host’s son’s Consort is unforgivably rude in my home country,” Damian states, scowling.
He almost smirks when they flinch away from him; it took years of effort, but Damian mastered the skill of conveying almost any emotion with just a few shifts in his facial expression. They deserve to choke on the disgust he feels for them.
“I beg your pardon?” the woman splutters.
Damian doesn’t know their names; their names aren’t important to him. He memorizes their faces, though, to ensure they will never be allowed to a Wayne Gala ever again. No amount of donation money is an acceptable exchange for harassing Drake in such a manner.
“Drake is the High Consort of my harem. If you touch him again, I assure you the consequences will be dire,” Damian states.
“Your harem?!“
"Grandfather himself approves of my choice. Quality doesn’t get any higher than Timothy Drake in Gotham,” Damian says, gaze raking over the man and his wife as if they’re in the ballroom because they murdered someone for an invitation after crawling out of a cesspool.
Drake’s hand fists in the back of Damian’s tuxedo jacket, where no one can see.
“Timothy will never grace anyone’s bed but my own for the rest of his life,” Damian says, ensuring derision drips from every word, so they feel as unworthy as they are.
If Drake had been inclined to such physical relations, Damian never would have approved of such filth laying hands on Drake; and, honestly, Drake’s standards are so impeccable that he never would have allowed it himself if he were drunk and dosed with pollen at the same time.
“Now would be the appropriate time to see yourselves out,” Damian says bluntly. “Consider your invitations revoked. I’ll not allow such disrespect in my own home."
"Why I never!"
"You can’t just—"
Damian quirks an eyebrow. "I’m Damian al Ghul Wayne. You’ll learn that there’s very little in life that I can’t just, and requesting your removal from my family’s private property is not one of those things. Remove yourselves, before I have you removed."
"I’m not going to be intimidated by an eighteen-year-old boy with tainted blood!” the man snaps.
Damian loathes that the words hurt. They shouldn’t. There’s absolutely nothing tainted about his blood.
He’s the son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul, grandson and Heir of the Demon’s Head — Ra’s al Ghul. There’s more history in the blood in Damian’s little finger than there is in this pompous creature’s entire body. He’s only surprised it’s taken this long for anyone to have the stupidity to complain about his cultured heritage in public.
Drake stands ramrod straight at Damian’s side. His fist tightens so much in Damian’s tuxedo jacket that it won’t be surprising at all if it rips; Drake has impressive grip-strength.
“Bruce!” Tim calls, voice pitched just right to cut through the noise of the gala. His tone is so cold that Damian almost shivers.
Bruce Wayne totters around with a tipsy smile on his face, but his eyes are burning; Damian knows why, as do Dick Grayson and Jason Todd, who are weaving their way through the crowd.
Drake never, ever makes a scene at galas. Not once. Not in the hundreds they’ve attended over the years.
“Yes, Tim?” Brucie calls back, words slightly slurred.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wilmington are of the opinion that Damian has tainted blood,” Drake says.
“What?"
Father sounds exactly like Batman: gravelly and righteous with fury.
If Todd didn’t have such a tight hold on Grayson’s arm, Damian knows the — what did Drake call these plebeians? — Wilmingtons, well, Mr. Wilmington, would be on the floor with a broken nose.
It doesn’t matter how old Damian gets; Grayson insists on looking out for him. If it wasn’t secretly endearing, Damian would complain about it more vociferously until Grayson ceased.
"I-I didn’t mean—” Wilmington starts.
“Yes, you did,” Drake interrupts, the words a trap like a frozen lake cracked beneath the snow dusted atop it.
“Father,” Damian adds, because it’s frustrating that Drake will stand up for everyone but himself, “this opinion was expressed after I informed them that Timothy is mine and isn’t available as their bed-mate for the evening."
Todd lunges forward. It’s no surprise; he was the assigned backup for Drake’s undercover mission. But Todd pulls up short when Father speaks two words with an authority he rarely wears in public as himself.
"Get out.”
“Bruce, you know I—"
"Right now."
Mrs. Wilmington tugs on her husband’s arm and hisses the only intelligent thing she’s said all evening, "Let’s go, Arthur!"
"Fine!"
As they turn to leave in a huff, Drake states, "And for the record? I would sleep with this 'tainted blood' man every day of my life."
The sneer that overcomes Drake’s face then is a work of art; truly, it’s a mirror image of Drake’s favorite photo of his mother — the one he keeps in his room at the Manor.
"Nothing,” Drake says, “in any reality could entice me to sleep with the two of you."
Mr. Wilmington turns almost purple with rage as his wife drags him from the ballroom. It’s a pity. A few more words and the man might’ve suffered an aneurysm that is well-deserved.
As soon as they’re out of sight, Drake molds himself to Damian’s side. It’s disconcerting — as if every bit of fight has been stripped from him.
"Are you okay, Timmy?” Todd asks softly, joining them.
“Get me out of here,” Drake whispers against Damian’s neck, the barest fog of a breath.
Grayson stares at them as if he wishes he could magically make the last half hour disappear. He … he looks like that a lot. Damian would greatly prefer if Grayson didn’t feel compelled to gaze at them in such a manner.
“You’ve got him, Dami?” Grayson asks, hands hovering around but never touching Drake.
Damian nods firmly and vows to his two eldest brothers, “I’ve got him.”