Damian Wayne -2

This was betrayal, pure and simple.

Damian was Robin. He was the blood heir, he had proven himself, he had earned that name and the mantle that came with it. He did not need, or want, or desire a "partner." Especially not a stupid, useless, idiotic, naive, ridiculous, annoying, obnoxious, clumsy, irritating, loud-mouthed, insufferable, moronic, incompetent, foolish, unworthy "partner."

Yet here he was. On a stakeout. With said "partner." In a tiny, cramped, stuffy closet. With only one chair. Which his "partner" had decided to take, leaving Damian with no choice but to perch on the floor. The excuse had been a twisted ankle, which was, well, true, but it wasn't that bad. Damian could tell, because he had, in fact, caused said twisted ankle. Accidentally. Of course.

Damian was not going to apologize. It wasn't his fault this weakling couldn't handle a bit of roughhousing. Why had they been roughhousing during a stakeout mission? Definitely not because Damian had wanted to establish his superiority or anything. He didn't have to. Because he was inarguably the better of the two.

He was better. Right? He wasn't jealous. This wasn't a rivalry. This nobody wasn't even worthy of the title of rival. Damian was simply confident, nothing more. Yes.

"Why are you even here?" Damian snapped, crossing his arms and leaning back. "It is not as though you can be useful. Go to Blüdhaven and work under Grayson, or something." He huffed, scowling. "Not that your skills are adequate for his level. Maybe Drake's." His arms crossed in front of his chest, and he looked out the tiny sliver of a window in the closet. "I cannot believe Father thinks I need a babysitter. How pathetic do you have to be to think you can protect me?"