[ It's a good thing the other has his head down, because a distinctly embarrassed flush is creeping up the back of Damian's neck, even as he keeps back straight and shoulders squared. Now there's a word he rarely hears. Usually his gestures are overlooked (or negated) by the abrasiveness of his attitude and his sharp tongue. ]
It's practical. [ A shrug, as he takes the stairs one at a time, hand curled around the rail. ] No one else here has anything that would fit. You would be swimming in even Drake's coats.
[ An exaggeration. Tim is trim and short, fine-boned - one of Damian's favorite jackets is one he'd stolen out of Tim's closet in when he wanted to 'fit in' as a civilian out in the streets of Gotham, and it fits him well enough.
But, if Damian were honest with himself, he doesn't really want to share Grayson with the others. Not to borrow clothes, or even to talk, though he knows they do. Grayson seems to like him best, and Damian is pleased enough to be moved to -- to this. Whatever it is. Protecting the boy, looking out for his interests, seeing to his needs.
It's a feeling, and a duty, he's not used to, but not one he's willing to surrender to anyone else in the family. ]
Coat, pants, shirt. A good pair of winter boots. And sleepwear, along with underclothes. To start. [ Arriving at his room, where they first officially 'met,' he pushes open the closet doors, gesturing to the neat rows of organized clothes. Most of it is Western in design, ranging from comfortable hoodies to gala best, but there's a small area at the back devoted to other styles - looser Middle Eastern and West Asian outfits glittering with expensive, intricate embroidery, or unadorned jackets and pants colored brightly, sometimes patterned. ] Whatever you like.
[ Go forth and choose. Damian, leaving him to it, is content enough to sit back on the bed, curling an ankle over his knee and seemingly entertained enough just to watch the assassin poke around inside the closet; though he's switching his attention from Richard to his smart phone, to hide that fact.
(He may still be kind of an asshole. But he remembers what it was like, being able to choose whatever clothes he wished to wear.) ]
no subject
It's practical. [ A shrug, as he takes the stairs one at a time, hand curled around the rail. ] No one else here has anything that would fit. You would be swimming in even Drake's coats.
[ An exaggeration. Tim is trim and short, fine-boned - one of Damian's favorite jackets is one he'd stolen out of Tim's closet in when he wanted to 'fit in' as a civilian out in the streets of Gotham, and it fits him well enough.
But, if Damian were honest with himself, he doesn't really want to share Grayson with the others. Not to borrow clothes, or even to talk, though he knows they do. Grayson seems to like him best, and Damian is pleased enough to be moved to -- to this. Whatever it is. Protecting the boy, looking out for his interests, seeing to his needs.
It's a feeling, and a duty, he's not used to, but not one he's willing to surrender to anyone else in the family. ]
Coat, pants, shirt. A good pair of winter boots. And sleepwear, along with underclothes. To start. [ Arriving at his room, where they first officially 'met,' he pushes open the closet doors, gesturing to the neat rows of organized clothes. Most of it is Western in design, ranging from comfortable hoodies to gala best, but there's a small area at the back devoted to other styles - looser Middle Eastern and West Asian outfits glittering with expensive, intricate embroidery, or unadorned jackets and pants colored brightly, sometimes patterned. ] Whatever you like.
[ Go forth and choose. Damian, leaving him to it, is content enough to sit back on the bed, curling an ankle over his knee and seemingly entertained enough just to watch the assassin poke around inside the closet; though he's switching his attention from Richard to his smart phone, to hide that fact.
(He may still be kind of an asshole. But he remembers what it was like, being able to choose whatever clothes he wished to wear.) ]