Work Text:
It all starts when Todd—who is loitering around the manor for reasons which are and shall remain forever unknown to Damian because he does not actually care—steals one of Damian's earbuds like the uncivilized brute he is, stuffing it into his own ear without so much as a 'may I.' He has to lean over the back of the couch to do it, and Damian mentally congratulates himself on not stabbing the ingrate who just invaded his personal space with any of the three knives currently hidden on his person.
“Is this Al Jazeera,” Todd says flatly. “You're listening to the news.”
“No, Todd, I am listening to your inane and unnecessary attempt at conversing with me. Be grateful.”
“I thought you were listening to music.”
Damian doesn't even bother to dignify this with an answer.
“But you do listen to music. Right?”
“I am familiar with the classics,” Damian scoffs.
“Why do I get the feeling you aren't talking about The Rolling Stones?”
“The what?” Damian asks despite himself.
“Christ,” Todd exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “This fucking family, I swear to God.”
Todd leaves the room without any further attempts at 'bonding', angrily muttering to himself. Angry muttering being Todd's modus operandi, it's not particularly alarming behavior.
Truth be told, Damian is not entirely sure what just happened, but he is so glad to see Todd's back he isn't going to question his good fortune.
–
Except Todd is back two days later, this time with a flash drive and a triumphant grin.
Damian eyes object and man suspiciously.
“I've got some homework for you.”
“I wasn't aware you were among my instructors, Todd.”
“Hah, shows what you know. Here, take this, it's not gonna blow up in your face or anything.”
“I have absolutely no interest in—”
“Yeah yeah, you don't care about me, I don't care about you, feelings are icky, got it.”
“You are an extremely irritating person.”
“So I've been told.”
And Todd is still grinning at him, which is... strange. It's distinctly Grayson-like behavior and Damian does not like it one bit.
“Oh c'mon, stop looking at me like that, it's just some music produced since the French Revolution. Because I get the feeling your experience with popular music has been severely limited so far. Namely to Dick's shitty workout playlists, and that's just wrong. So, there. Listen to some human music, love it, hate it, whatever.”
“You shouldn't have bothered.”
“It was no b—” Todd starts before realizing what Damian meant. “Oh, you mean you're going to go feed it to your monster dog as soon as my back is turned.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Todd. I would never do that to Titus.”
“Right. Well.”
Todd looks more dejected than angry; a fact that makes Damian angry, though he has no idea why.
–
Damian drops the flash drive into an otherwise empty drawer of his bedroom desk and promptly forgets about it.
At least, that's the plan.
–
“So what's this I hear about you not liking my music?”
Damian would not admit to it under torture or threat of death, but his first thought is precisely just this: ohMIGOD. It's one of those ridiculous, tasteless Brownisms Damian would never actually utter out loud, but privately he has to admit there are certain situations where no other expression in the English language would suffice.
Exhibit A: Nightwing whining at him about—what? Music? What music?—while the two of them are stuck in an actual, literal snake pit.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Damian says honestly. “Oh, look, an Ophiophagus hannah.”
“Hi, Hannah. And I mean Red Robin told me that Hood told him that you don't like my music. And, like, you could have said something. If you didn't like it, I mean.”
“Nightwing, I assure you I have no opinion whatsoever on your musical taste or lack thereof. And our friend Hannah here is a king cobra.”
“Batman's ETA is ten minutes, the venom doesn't work that fast even on someone as tiny as you. And a lot of people like David Guetta. Everyone likes David Guetta.”
“True fact,” Brown chimes over the comms, before inexplicably wailing, “YOU SHOOT ME DOOOWN BUT I WON'T FAAALL I AM TITAAAANIIIUUUM.”
Damian can detect a scattering of applause in the background. Some fool yells, “Marry me, Batgirl!”
“Batgirl. Where are you.”
“Huh? IHOP. D'you want a milkshake, Robin?”
Damian glances at Grayson, now alarmingly crooning at the snakes about being bulletproof and having nothing to lose. The snakes are hissing back at him, and despite not being particularly fond of reptiles, Damian feels a sudden strong kinship with them. Singing is not Grayson's forte.
“Oh, why not,” he sighs, and picks up one of Nightwing's eskrima sticks to go poke at Hannah the king cobra.
–
The next one to strike is Cain, in the form of an e-mail helpfully labeled 'stuff'. The contents are equally puzzling; the first link takes Damian to a video recording of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake in its entirety, the other is a download link to an album by a band improbably named 'Bunchofuckingoofs'.
The e-mail is signed ':)'.
'Thank you for this unsolicited look into the disturbed depths of your psyche,' Damian writes.
Cain replies twenty seconds later with, ':))!!'
–
Brown, to her credit, waits until Damian is well and truly down with a minor stab wound, a recently dislocated knee and enough painkillers in his system to fell an elephant.
“Hey Dami, I came to keep you company,” Brown says brightly as she pokes her head into his room, waving an iPad in his general direction.
“Do your worst, vixen,” Damian mutters into Titus' fur, because throwing Brown out just isn't worth the effort of moving.
Brown grins and settles down by the bed, balancing the iPad on her knee and angling the screen Damian's way. A video is already pulled up, something called 'Bad Romance'.
“That's an oxymoron,” Damian points out.
“Oh, Damian,” Brown says in that amused, vaguely condescending grown-up voice Damian is pretty sure she of all people has no business using.
Damian prays for sleep or swift death. Either of those will do.
–
“Are all of this woman's songs about debauchery, wealth accumulation and psychologically damaging romantic entanglements?”
“Pretty much. Like, what else is there to write songs about?”
“I can't believe people would go out of their way to purchase this. I feel like I've just been subjected to one of Harley Quinn's unhinged monologues.”
For whatever reason, Brown seems to find this hilarious.
“Oh my God. Your dad is going to kill me.”
“Father doesn't kill. Unfortunately.”
“Aw, you'd miss me, kiddo. Just admit it.”
“Never.”
“Whatever. Let's try some Lana Del Rey next. Babs and Dick like her too so that's like, three against one tiny little bird.”
“Let me guess; more debauchery, wealth accumulation and psychologically damaging romantic entanglements?”
“See, you are learning.”
–
“Well?” Damian demands.
Drake startles and looks around the Cave, which is and has been empty save for the two of them for the past hour.
Damian rolls his eyes.
“Just spit it out, Drake. I know you are in on the conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy,” Drake repeats.
“Yes, the whole,” Damian waves dismissively. “Shebang. With the music.”
“Oh, you mean Jason's thing. Um, no thanks.”
“Oh?”
“I mean, what's the point? You're just going to make fun of me and then Jason is going to make fun of me and that's pretty much all you two ever do anyway, I'm not a fan of shooting myself in the foot.”
“Ah, I see. You're scared. Well, that's hardly news.”
Damian turns back to his case file and waits.
“Oh my God FINE,” Drake bursts out. How predictable. “Arcade Fire and Daft Punk. Look them up. Or don't. I don't care either way.”
“Of course you don't.”
“I don't.”
“Right, Drake.”
By the time his father returns, Drake has a black eye and Damian is stoically hiding a bruised rib. Father takes one look at them and sighs.
“I'm not going to ask.”
Damian glances over at Drake and they share a look of profound relief, which makes Father boggle at them.
They are all saved from further awkwardness by Pennyworth's timely arrival.
–
Damian is sitting on the front steps playing with Titus when Todd comes storming out of the house. It is not an unusual scene; Todd seems to come and go as he pleases these days, and more often than not he and Father end up arguing. Brown assures him this is 'progress', as if Damian needed assuring. Tt.
“Hey, how's the stock market doing?” Todd mutters in passing.
Damian doesn't know what possesses him to answer.
“I'm listening to Queen, actually.”
Todd stops on the last step.
“Yeah? How's that?”
“It's... less unpleasant than the noise Grayson and Brown seem to prefer.”
“Oh man, tell me about it. You get around to Pink Floyd yet? The Who?”
Todd looks inexplicably excited by Damian's newfound interest, and for once Damian can't find it in himself to deny that he is interested. Clearly not as fanatically invested as the rest of his family, but he is not completely unmoved.
He's strangely at peace with this.
“Yes and yes. They were... fine. Led Zeppelin is better, though.”
“You know, Damian, we might just turn you into a real boy yet.”
“Don't push it, Todd.”