Damian didn't think life could get any better once he was away from the League of Assassins and his mother and grandfather and everything that reminded him of the blood on his hands.

He was proven wrong when you came into his life.

A sibling of one of Tim's friends', you had trailed behind your brother as he entered the Wayne Mansion one day, immediately abandoning you with Alfred to hang with Tim. The butler, seeing potential for a friend for Damian, had introduced the preteen (at the time) to you. He'd brought snacks for the two of you and left you alone. A friendship blossomed from that moment on — you, a typical loner, and Damian, an atypical loner.

Now, seven years later, seniors in high school, the two of you burst into fits of laughter as Damian almost wrecked your beat-up, hand-me-down truck while looking questionably at something you had uttered. He swerved once and then twice as he grabbed your hand, squeezing it while getting back on track.

"Holy shit," he grinned, turning into one of the emptier plazas near the edge of Gotham. It was somewhere you two had found when you were twelve — a comfortable corner, away from the bustling, crime-ridden streets of central Gotham.

Damian hastily unbuckled himself, as did you, and you both stepped out of the truck — he shoved you lightly, passing you by as you jogged behind the truck and hopped into the back.

Meanwhile, Damian pulled out his phone, plugged in his earbuds, and made a quick stop at one of the stores around the lot, grabbing drinks for the both of you and coming back after about fifteen minutes.

"You're indebted to me by at least a hundred dollars now," he said as he rejoined you, handing you your favorite and jumping into the cargo bed, "which should make up for me almost totaling your car."

His smile practically lit up the sky as he passed you the other earbud, which had been hanging uselessly for the past few minutes. He pulled out his phone, starting the same playlist he had set up for your weekly outings. You'd never get sick of it.