#very tired of having to go through my switch’s camera roll to delete a dozen random safari adventure nature documentary photographs lol

[goldensunset]

i still stand by bp being a really useful and cool currency for all the stuff you can get with it but mannnnnnnnn it really is like oh so you want to do literally anything in the dlc beyond the main story? enjoy running all over creation in the terarium doing the most random stuff for hours on end lol

[lexiconallie]

9 platonic damiTim? Like, making friends without knowing who they are and bonding, but still fighting in real life :3

Read on AO3

Damian clicked the picture a second time to zoom and sighed. The photographer, username gothamlensflair, had taken this one some time during a period of three days two weeks ago, between the moment when Poison Ivy had broken the horizon with her giant man-eating gardenias and the point where Batman had somehow convinced her to stick to the small man-eating gardenias -- the stems kept breaking on the giant ones, so she cleaned it up and marked it as a failed experiment before working to nurture the smaller gardenia plant.

The flowers had been terrifying in actuality, but the shadows they cast upon the buildings near the plant were striking, and gothamlensflair had taken full advantage.

The photograph was beautiful, as gothamlensflair’s photos always were. Damian let himself smile as he reblogged the picture and composed his usual complimentary sentence to the photographer. Then he sat back for a moment and furrowed his brows at the screen. Was it good enough to join the dozen small frames of photos he’d already printed out from this person’s blog? Yes, he decided, it was; he rummaged in his drawer for yet another small frame and his freshly sharpened pair of scissors.

He had forty-six minutes until he needed to get into costume. He might as well use the time looking at his photos as much as he wished.

Patrol was frustrating, and somewhat dull; Damian had volunteered to patrol with Grayson, but Grayson and Drake had apparently made plans to do reconnaissance on a group of criminals. Damian was not allowed to intimidate anyone into giving them the information they needed, so he had to sit and watch as the other two listened to whatever the criminals were saying.

Finally they patrolled as one should, by looking for criminals and then fighting them; this was only for thirty minutes, though, before they stopped for a ‘snack break’ on top of a residential building by the shore.

Damian suspected they’d chosen the spot for its convenience; still, it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant roof to sit and watch the moon’s reflection ripple in the water.

“Oh, wow, what a view,” Drake sighed, which immediately ruined any enjoyment Damian had taken from the sight ahead of them. “Nightwing, is this roof accessible from the ground?”

“Sure, if you’re not worried about whether you’re legally allowed up here,” Grayson replied. “Why?”

Drake pulled a small camera from one of his compartments (a waste of valuable space, Damian thought) and snapped a quick photo.

“I wanted to take a picture. It’d look great on my desk, don’t you think?”

Grayson laughed. “Just make sure none of us are in it before you put it in the frame, all right?”

“No, I’m putting a closeup of you on my wall,” Drake said. “Thirty-two by forty-eight, that one where you’ve got that special ‘I’ve just been punched in the stomach’ look on your face.”

“I appreciate that, I appreciate that a lot.”

Damian sighed noisily and rolled his eyes. The view was indeed wonderful, but he didn’t want to spend more time than he absolutely had to listening to this nonsense.

“Oh, are you getting tired, Robin?” Drake needled, packing his camera back into his belt. “Do you need a nap?”

“I thought naps were for old people like you,” Damian retorted.

“Hey,” said Grayson mildly. “Play nice, kids. My tender old heart can’t take the tension.”

Damian and Drake snorted at the same time, then glared at each other until Drake crossed his arms and looked back out at the water. Damian wrinkled his nose. He’d won, but it felt like a loss; he knew that if he’d had a camera on him and any skill with it, he’d have taken the same opportunity to capture that moment. There were traits he did not wish to share with his predecessor, and an aesthetic appreciation for things was one of a long, long list.

Damian muttered something under his breath in a language which Drake didn’t understand but Grayson did; Drake understand the tone well enough, however, and both of Damian’s companions threw a narrow-eyed look at him.

Damian predicted that he’d have the definition for the word ‘nice’ superglued to his door again by daybreak. He already had a container of salt prepared so as to wreak his vengeance upon Drake.

He was wrong; this time, it was merely the word ‘nice’ written in capital letters in toothpaste on his bathroom mirror. Creative, Drake. Damian still drew out a maze in salt on Drake’s sheets after school that day. He used Drake’s small camera to capture a picture of his handiwork and admired the photo for a moment before giving in to his curiosity and going to the last photo Drake had taken.

It was, in a word, beautiful. Damian wasn’t entirely surprised. His predecessor had to have skill at something, or Batman would never have taken him on; however, Damian hadn’t thought that Drake put any effort into the photos he always took.

Damian’s finger hovered over the button to delete the picture. He twitched, and his finger brushed the button for a long moment; then he growled and put the camera back where it belonged a little too hard.

He left Drake’s room a little too fast to be unsuspicious, but then again anyone who saw him would have rightfully thought him suspect for entering the room in the first place.

He decided to count that as a victory. He’d been tempted, but he resisted. Perhaps Father would be happy with him for that.

Or perhaps he’d never know.

Damian buried himself in his computer the rest of the afternoon, only taking a short break for snacks for himself and Titus. The person who ran gothamlensflair had replied to his comment with a pleasant message, thanking Damian for being so kind and offering to discuss the technical details of photography, as Damian had expressed an interest in his latest compliment. Damian accepted, and only had to wait fifteen minutes for a response.

The person who ran the blog called himself Lens, and he was very friendly, with touches of humour to offset the technical nature of his advice. Damian had known, through the man’s photography, that he was very dedicated to his craft, but he hadn’t suspected there was much work involved, nor such intense focus on the artistry of it.

It was...humbling. He’d heard someone ask Drake once, what photography entailed, and Drake’s answer had been trite: “Just point and shoot,” Drake had joked, flashing a smile. Which was all very well and good until one acquired an actual camera and had to search for two minutes to find the on switch, not that Damian would ever admit to that. This advice was more intensive, and while it was clear Lens had attempted to make it as accessible as possible, Damian had to retrieve his camera from his drawer to clarify what Lens meant.

Damian replied with thanks, and a promise he’d show the photographer the product of his advice. He refreshed the blog once more before he’d close the browser and froze.

He recognized the latest picture. It’d only been uploaded in the past three minutes, but he recognized it, and that was because it was the picture Drake had taken on the roof with him last night.

There were two options. One, the option he hoped for, was that gothamlensflair had somehow gotten ahold of Drake’s camera and decided to upload that photograph and claim it as his own. The other...the other was that gothamlensflair was Drake.

He had a feeling he knew which one was true.

Drake sent a message back saying, ‘That’s great! I hope you can take some soon, I’d love to see them.’

Damian didn’t answer.

He did his best to avoid Drake the next day, which wasn’t out of character for him. Drake hadn’t yet retaliated for the salt labyrinth on his sheets; Damian had more than enough excuses to dart out of Drake’s sight every time the man came in the room.

It was two days after that, though, that Grayson confronted him to ask what was wrong; Damian didn’t realise Grayson had any intention to corner him until he was already sitting on the sofa with Titus’ head on his lap and a bowl of soup perched precariously on the arm of the sofa, Grayson at the other end, eyes focused meditatively on the puerile acrobatic contest program on the television.

“You’ve been acting strange for a few days, Damian,” Grayson said. “Is there something up that I can help with?”

Damian kept his silence for a moment, then gave in with a sharp twist of his head away from the man.

“There’s nothing,” he started, and stopped himself when he saw Grayson’s eyebrows shoot up. “Nothing...that you can help with.”

Grayson turned to look at him, gauging his sincerity, and nodded. “Okay. You know I’m here if you want to talk.” Then he grinned. “So how about some ice cream, after that soup?”

Damian couldn’t eat the soup quickly enough for his own liking.

Drake sent another message later that day, asking if he’d gotten the chance to take any pictures yet. Damian replied with a brusque, ‘No,’ and tried to forget that the computer existed for a few hours.

Drake was hurt that night. It would be folly for Damian to feel guilty about that. He didn’t like Drake, and it couldn’t be entirely his fault that the man almost lost part of an ear to an overeager slash with a sword; but he was foolish, and he felt guilty.

Damian should have noticed the man with the sword would attack when he did. He hadn’t, and Drake had suffered for Damian’s inattention.

Damian’s camera was sitting useless on his desk from when he’d dropped it there after reading Drake’s informative message the other day. He picked it up now and glared daggers into his wall, considering. There was nothing Damian could do for Drake in regard to his health -- Pennyworth and Father had that covered adequately -- and Drake wouldn’t accept any offers of sympathy from Damian; the man likely wouldn’t even believe it, coming from him. The most Damian could do was...approach Drake from another angle.

He ran out the front door in a hurry, sprinting down the driveway at a clip fast enough that Titus was galloping beside him, rather than his usual calm trot.

There was a spot he’d been eyeing, before Damian discovered that gothamlensflair and Timothy Drake were one and the same. It had been a construction site, before the person backing it had turned up dead in his apartment five months ago with enough evidence surrounding his corpse to put him and his criminal compatriots in jail for the next eighty years -- in a fair court, at least, which was never the case in Gotham. There were still steel beams piled haphazardly in places, although the more mobile pieces like the fence, or any tools that had been left, had drifted off to be put to use by the more enterprising thieves around. It was a dismal spot in the daytime, but at the in-between hours of twilight or dawn, the dim light made the whole area seem like it had come from a story. He’d wanted to take pictures of it for a while -- preferably before someone, most likely Father, finally decided to buy the land and do something with it. And Damian thought Drake might like the pictures.

The lighting was perfect when he got there. There were a few purple clouds hanging in the sky, but they were offset by enough patches of dim blue to make it an interesting backdrop rather than Gotham’s signature gloomy. Damian hopped over the spot where the fence had been and tried to take Drake’s advice in determining the optimal spot for his photography.

The pictures turned out well. Even his critical eye couldn’t find anything that a few minor tweaks in his photo editor couldn’t fix. Damian had mixed feelings about that. On one hand, he was proud to create an artwork; on the other, he did hate needing help in the first place -- especially from Drake.

It didn’t matter, though. Drake would never know Damian was the one who had taken the pictures, or his advice.

Damian thoroughly ignored both Pennyworth’s hints at dinner that Drake was in a much better mood and the reply from Drake to his own message, which had contained the product of his trip. There was nothing good that could come of a message which began, ‘You’re in Gotham too!’ -- Damian should have known the man would recognize that abandoned construction site. They’d investigated the owner’s death at the same time.

Drake made himself a nuisance in Damian’s constant company for the next day, which should have made Damian suspicious had he not been distracted by their online connection. Damian went to bed at night only to find that every available surface had been covered by rubber ducks, each one made to look like it wore Grayson’s Robin costume. Damian almost let himself smirk; it seemed Drake was feeling much better.

Then Damian found a duck in his nightstand drawer, and a jolt of panic shot through him. If Drake had gone into his desk as well...he would have found where Damian had stuffed all his framed photos when he’d realised who gothamlensflair was. That in itself didn’t make it obvious that Damian was gothamlensflair’s ‘biggest fan’, as Drake had called him online, but Drake, loath as he was to admit it, was not as imbecilic as he sometimes acted -- it was only the matter of a few mental connections to lead to the truth, and Drake was well-known for his skill in that area.

Damian marched over to his desk and yanked the drawer out from it, nearly pulling it from its tracks entirely. His instinct had been correct. Not only was there a duck sitting in the middle of a pile of paperclips and staples, but the photos were missing.

Damian contemplated sitting down on his desk chair for a moment to recoup, but shot down the thought almost immediately. He was many things, but he’d never allow anyone to call him a coward. He would have to confront Drake.

There was enough time before patrol for him to gossip with those chatty women at the supermarket thrice over; if Damian had his way, his conversation about gothamlensflair with the man himself would last no more than two minutes. He hunted Drake down nevertheless, knowing that it would be better for him to have spare time in case Drake had run off somewhere to hide from his potential wrath.

His planning was for naught. It was child’s play to find Drake -- he was lurking in the kitchen and stealing bites of cookie dough when Pennyworth wasn’t looking.

“You took something of mine,” said Damian, planting his feet in the doorway and leveling his most impressive glare on Drake.

Drake spun around guiltily, a piece of cookie dough held between his fingers, but relaxed when he saw it was Damian.

“I don’t think so,” Drake replied, a small frown forming on his face. “As long as I hold the copyright, I mean. Where’d you get them, did you hack my computer?”

Pennyworth was politely pretending not to listen, but the man couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. Damian stubbornly did not shift in place; his glare only intensified.

“I would never stoop to your levels, Drake,” Damian said, “I don’t dig through other people’s private things like that.” Never mind that that was a blatant lie, it scored a hit on Drake.

Drake’s frown deepened. “Your private things,” he repeated, his voice changing to sound like it did when he was about to break a case. “You consider the pictures yours. You liked them?”

Damian stayed silent.

“You liked them,” said Drake, surer this time. “You like them. And you didn’t hack my computer to get them, you found them. You follow my blog.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” Damian burst out, unable to keep it in. “You write differently online to when you write reports.”

“It’s a different mindset,” Drake dismissed. “But I don’t talk much on the blog. That’s usually just pictures. You talked to me.”

“No,” said Damian, but it was too late.

Realization dawned upon Drake’s face. “You’re the one who leaves detailed comments on all the pictures you like. You’re the one who asked for advice last week. What -- Damian? What?”

Damian gritted his teeth and attempted to emulate Superman in his eye-lasers. “I appreciate art,” he said, “this cannot possibly be a surprise.”

“It so can,” Drake countered. He sat down, blinking quickly as he stared into space, obviously putting thoughts together. He’d forgotten about the cookie dough, which ended in his hair in a long, pale streak obvious against the black. “Well, I did know you were in Gotham,” he said finally. “I should’ve guessed it was someone I knew. My luck runs that way.”

Damian contemplated throwing a chair at him. It wasn’t a good idea, however; Pennyworth was still in the room, and judging by the height his eyebrows had reached, he was paying full attention to them.

Instead, he ran. Rather -- it wasn’t quite running -- he exited the room and hastily returned to his own room.

It was finished. He’d confronted Drake, it had been as unsatisfying as he had predicted, and that was all that would come of it.

Damian would never admit to the pang of sadness he felt as he deactivated his blog.

(A week later, he found a note on his desk that said, ‘I took some new pictures. They’re on your computer already if you want to see them.’

He let himself smile.)