Work Text:
Tim notices it for the first time at the breakfast table.
He doesn't usually spend his morning at the manor, not recently, but last night's patrol had been rough on all of them and Tim didn't have it in him to drive all the way back to his apartment — especially not when Bruce had clapped him on the shoulder and asked him to stay the night with tentative care. The expression had seemed prepared for refusal. Alfred also looked particularly scandalised at Tim willingly missing pancakes and fruit smoothies.
So he's here, sitting at the breakfast table with a plate stacked high with a grand total of four and half pancakes (just how he likes it) and a glass of some sort of bluey-green drink. He hope's there's kiwi in there, but Tim knows better than to ask Alfred what he actually put in it. Plausible deniability, if he pretends to not see the asparagus on the chopping board at the counter.
Bruce is at the head of the table, naturally, with Tim on his left. It's a little funny how they've fallen into these sitting arrangements, somehow upholding the pinnacle of traditional family seating while consequently being the most unconventional family in Bristol. If only Jason, previously dead and now revived son, would take his place at the far end of the table too — they could be the stars in a poorly planned family sitcom.
Speaking of bad sitcoms, the stereotypical devil incarnate youngest child is missing from his equally as comically assigned seat on Bruce's right side, ironically opposite Tim.
Bruce seems unperturbed by Damian's absence, as he continues to scroll through his work tablet and drink his coffee. Even Duke, who's barely functioning before eight in the morning, moves with heavy limbs and droopy eyes as he shovels a spoonful of cereal into his mouth (he doesn't like pancakes, Alfred pretends this doesn't upset him) and doesn't seem bothered in the slightest. They're both wholly unconcerned about the missing thirteen year old.
Tim isn't worried. If anything, he's concerned that the boy might be hiding in the ceiling shafts and waiting for the perfect moment to jump down and break his neck, or drop a paintball directly onto his work suit. Either option would ruin his day by a fair amount.
So Tim frowns, placing down his knife and fork, "Where's Damian?"
Duke lets out a tired hnn? but doesn't seem awake enough to try and answer. Bruce's mouth twitches at the boy's amusing behaviour, and turns to Tim with a ghost of a smile.
Bruce does that a lot, recently. Smile. Tim is glad (and also a little freaked out).
"He's getting ready for school."
That makes him raise a brow, "For this long? I'm already on my third pancake."
"He's right," Duke mumbles, yawning and drinking the rest of his cereal milk by tipping the bowl all the way back. He puts it back down and blinks, decidedly more awake, "We need to leave soon."
"I'm driving you," Bruce tells them noncommittally, squinting down at his tablet, "Let him take his time."
Tim isn't sure why this reasoning only makes him more suspicious. Damian never used to take this much time getting ready, even if he did put more care into his appearance than Dick and Tim ever did, back when they all lived in the manor and then the penthouse for a short while.
But fine. Whatever. He's being obsessively paranoid about the kid who hasn't tried to genuinely kill him in at least an entire year — which is a really big improvement. Tim would be proud, if the achievement wasn't quite literally his life being spared.
"You've got work today?" Duke asks with a yawn, his brief energy immediately after finishing breakfast beginning to fizzle as he reaches for a banana from the fruit bowl in the middle of the table.
Tim nods, swallowing his bite of pancakes with lemon and sugar before answering, "Nothing serious. But if I don't show up at least once a week then Lucius might have a stroke."
Bruce snorts, obviously agreeing and seeing his own vision of Lucius Fox hunting him down the corridors of Wayne Enterprises with a weapon (a folder of papers to sign). Before Tim can use the opportunity to ask Bruce how his own work, outside of the cowl, is going, the door to the dining rooms open quietly.
Damian walks in proudly, ever the perfect posture and grace, taking a moment to deposit his school bag near the entrance before continuing on his strut to the dinner table.
Bruce isn't looking at him, too busy suddenly typing into his tablet rather quickly to offer anything but an acknowledging hnn. Duke also isn't looking, staring sleepily into his half peeled banana, head tipping dangerously towards his glass of orange juice.
However Tim can do nothing but look at Damian, and he almost chokes on the pancakes in his mouth because —
Because Damian is wearing bright yellow hair clips.
They're the little plastic kind that little kids in doll adverts wear to seem happier and younger than they are, colourful and unavoidable. Tim is surprised rather than opposed to the questionable fashion statement Damian's chosen to indulge on this fairly normal Monday morning — because really, it isn't any of his business what Damian does or doesn't do with his hair. Though, he is rather baffled by the colour choice.
They stick out like a sore thumb, or a sunflower in the middle of Gotham's smog, against the grey of his school uniform and dark colour of his hair. Bright and cheery in a way only the colour yellow can be, perfectly placed on one side of his head to tuck his hair behind his ear.
Damian doesn't even bother acknowledging Tim, or his blatant staring, as he walks in and stands directly next to Bruce.
The boy comes up to Bruce's shoulders when he's sitting down, and Tim realises suddenly how tiny Damian still is. He's small for his age, but the awkward ganglyness of his limbs when not being used to incapacitate someone suggests an oncoming growth spurt that will definitely surpass his older brothers (except maybe Jason). Bruce isn't that tall to begin with, but Talia is tall and pointy, and Damian is looking more and more like his mother everyday.
Damian waits patiently by Bruce's side, and once the man finally stops typing to look over to his son, Tim waits in anticipation. What was even happening?
Bruce doesn't even look at the clips in his hair, and instead, reaches out to smooth the sweater of his school uniform, nodding appreciatively, "Good morning, Damian."
"Morning father," Damian replies, swiftly turning to his seat now that whatever that was is over. Duke, who looks like he might be falling asleep again, jumps when Damian slides the chair across the floor to sit down, "Do wake up Thomas, you'll fall asleep into your orange juice. Again."
"Morning to you too Dames," Duke grumbles tiredly, but reaches out blindly to pat Damian on the arm.
Tim suddenly feels like a guest at his own family's dining table. It had only been a few weeks — months? — since he last joined the Wayne Manor residence for breakfast, but in that short time, they'd all… changed.
It was a good change, a very, very good change. Duke used to be incredibly shy, not in nature, but because he didn't really know when it was appropriate to be himself. A new house with an already established family is a terrifying place to intercept, no matter how welcomed you are. Tim can empathise, so it's nice to see the boy comfortable and relaxed. Finally feeling like he's at home with the people around him.
Bruce had a similar sort of anxiousness that he's carried with him for years, rigid and quiet and eager to finish this horrid breakfast affair and run back to his study or the cave. Tim didn't blame him, not when he remembers what Damian had been like a few years ago.
But right now, the boy sitting in front of him, patiently arranging his cutlery and napkin as he waits for Alfred to bring his breakfast, was not at all the terrible creature that would harass them the moment the sun rose over Gotham's coast. Damian had been rude and for a lack of better words, annoying (and he still is, all things considered). Antagonistic to anyone who made the misfortune of looking at him for more than half a second on their endeavour to grab the salt shaker.
"Drake." Damian suddenly regards him coolly, but not mockingly. Tim thinks he might be having a psychological episode of some sort.
Before he can muster a reply to some startlingly awkward degree that would undoubtedly annoy Damian out of his strange respectful demeanour, Alfred walks into the dining room with Damian's plate of pancakes and his own colourful smoothie.
"You look very dashing, Master Damian." Alfred tells him with a polite smile after placing down the plate and glass, the sort of smile that makes you feel older and more important than anyone else. Alfred was always good at that.
"Thank you Pennyworth," Damian replies with a smug sort of smirk, pulling at his tie.
Then, Duke blinks awake to finish peeling his banana — but does a double take at Damian's hair, finally noticing the yellow hair clips. Tim watches in apprehension as a wicked smile spreads over the boy's face, something mischievous in his brightening eyes, and Tim is left sighing in disappointment.
Duke is going to bring up the hair clips, and then Damian's going to throw a fit, and then Tim is going to get a salad fork thrown at his head for simply existing during his tantrum. This strange sort of truce and familiarity was nice while it lasted, and Tim's really going to miss the three and a half seconds of peace that he and Damian have shared for the first time in months.
Duke giggles, and asks, with all the intent and purpose of being innocently evil, "Are you wearing those because of me?"
Tim stiffens, taking a small bite of his food while looking between the two teenagers. Bruce isn't intervening, in fact, he looks just as calm as he had before Damian walked in, scrolling and typing into his tablet. He's definitely listening into the conversation, since he's always listening, but if Bruce isn't going to stop the two from scratching out each other's eyes, then neither is Tim.
Only, instead of exploding or impaling him with silver cutlery, Damian rolls his eyes, cutting up his pancakes into small pieces, "Not everything is about you, Thomas."
"You're such a liar!" Duke cries happily, "You got those because of me! They're yellow!"
"Just because this shade of yellow is the only pleasant one, and your suit happens to be the same shade, is simply a coincidence." Damian states gruffly, and Tim's not sure if his sleep deprivation, or whatever magical vegetable Alfred had snuck into the smoothie is making him hallucinate, but Damian's little hooked nose looks red.
He's embarrassed, Tim realises, and he's not getting mad about it.
Bruce finally makes a sound, placing his tablet down to take a sip of coffee, looking over the mug at the two boys in their uniforms, Duke grinning and Damian's ears red, "Hurry up you two, or you're going to be late for school."
Damian harrumphs, pointedly ignoring Duke's blinding smile as the boy happily finishes his banana, taking very obvious glances at the hairclips in his brother's hair. Tim finishes his breakfast with ash in his mouth, not sure why he feels so unsettled by this situation, or why he's expecting it all to come crashing down.
Tim realises, when Damian is half way through explaining his science homework (even though he's talking to Duke, he's not making any effort to exclude Tim from the conversation, so Tim takes this as permission to pay attention) that he's enjoying himself. Breakfast at the manor used to be fun, peaceful, back when Bruce had a little less weight pushing down his shoulders and Gotham had been terrible but not this terrible.
But then he grew up, Jason came back and Damian showed up, and then Bruce left, and then he came back and it was all — very peculiar. Tim is waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never comes.
This… this is nice. It feels kind of like old times, only completely different. New. (Better?)
When he's almost finished with his food, Damian clears his throat somewhat petulantly, "Are we to give Drake a lift to work on our way to school?"
Tim stiffens without meaning to, having done his best thus far to not make the conversation about him. There was a clear balance of conversation at this breakfast table he had hijacked, with Bruce's silent guardianship and Damian and Duke's odd bantering. Tim was a guest, as tough as that pill was to swallow, and he had been for a long time.
He's not questioning his place as Bruce's son, or in some way, his role as Duke and Damian's older brother — but this place felt unknown. Tim hadn't done enough research before accepting the invite to the world's strangest breakfast. He's half expecting Superman and Two Face to walk through the kitchen door holding more pancakes.
"Tim?" Bruce calls, snapping Tim out of his spiral, "Do you want me to drop you off at work? It's on the way to the academy."
Tim considers this. It probably isn't a good idea.
He's about to decline and pretend Bruce's disappointed expression isn't giving him severe heartburn when Damian speaks up again, scoffing, "Drake, carbon emissions in Gotham are already terrible. It would be less damaging to the environment if father dropped you off, as opposed to you driving as well."
Finally, for the first time that morning, Tim is not the only one surprised by Damian's lack of hostility, and his rather frightening amount of rationality. Bruce blinks at his youngest son, brows furrowed in question.
Duke is similarly stunned, but recovers quickly, shrugging with an easy, pleased smile, "He's not wrong. What do you say, Tim?"
I say Alfred is poisoning the tea and you're all slowly going insane.
"Fine." Is what comes out of his mouth instead, and maybe it's all in his head, but Damian looks pleased with himself when he plops the last bite of pancake into his mouth.
"Damian started seeing a therapist," is what Dick tells him over the phone three days after a horrifically pleasant breakfast and awkward car ride earlier that week.
Tim blinks, the pen in his hand slipping out of his fingers and onto the paperwork. A dozen different interactions, which include but are not limited to Damian kind-of-scowling at him as opposed to his usual definitely-scowling at him when he got out of the car and waved goodbye to them, finally slot into place. The puzzle becomes a little more clear, the fog a little less thick.
This explains a lot, kind of, but that being said, "Are you supposed to be telling me this?"
Dick snorts, "Relax, Timmers. He told me, and I quote, 'I do not care who you tell, Grayson, though I'm sure you'll explain it in such a way that will only come across as undignified,' so like, he basically said whatever."
"Since when?"
"A couple weeks I think," his older brother continues, clicking away at his own computer, "I started getting suspicious when he randomly sent me a good morning text. I told Bruce, because I thought maybe Damian was going to try and run away again, and he laughed!"
"Bruce laughed?" Tim's eyes widened.
The responding laughter from his brother is not an unfamiliar sound, but it's been a while since the two of them have had an excuse to meet up with their busy schedules, so hearing it over the phone isn't the same. It still makes Tim smile though, the warm and nasally laughter infectious, "Yeah! Turns out, Duke had some sort of talk with Damian after they got into an argument and they ended up booking themselves in for therapy without telling anyone until Bruce got sent the bill."
"That's…" good, really good, like a peaceful breakfast before school kind of good, "Is it like… a normal therapist?"
Tim doesn't need to specify what he means by normal therapist, lacking capes and all, and Dick hums, "I'm not sure. I didn't want to pry too much in case he started getting antsy with all my questions. I could ask Duke. Why? You consider joining them on the sofa?"
Tim ignores that question, since although Dick had phrased it in a way that seemed offhanded and jokingly, there's a seriousness to it that Tim is not at all ready to talk about over the phone, "He does seem different."
"You're right," Dick informs him happily, "Our calls last much longer now! And he's much more open about school and other normal stuff. He seems less…"
"Angry? Violent? Filled with murderous intent?" Tim fills in with a scoff, but for some reason, the words are eerily devoid of any true malice.
Dick's voice is strangely raw when instead he answers, "Lonely."
Tim really has to stop falling for Bruce's sad-and-dejected-father expressions, because this is the second time this month he's been asked to stay at the manor after patrol, and for some reason, accepted.
Luckily, because Tim really does have important Bernard-shaped-plans tomorrow morning (an ice cream date for breakfast, he's a genius), he talked his way out of staying the night. Unfortunately, he was not able to convince Alfred he'd eat when he got home, so now Tim's here, in the cave, in his normal clothes, waiting for Alfred to call them all up for a late dinner.
Bruce takes this moment to get Tim's opinions on a few of his cases and share intel they've gathered over the week. It's nice, familiar, until it isn't, because Damian's jumping back into the cave not even an hour after leaving to finish his homework.
"What do you think, Drake?" Damian then asks while ignoring Bruce entirely, and Tim curses under his breath at the direct and unavoidable mention, "Father allowed me to make my own training suit."
He's standing in the centre of the cave's training area, arms out wide to show off his new outfit. It's a plain thing, muted beige or cream, but it's made of a soft fabric that a lot of Damian's other clothes, the ones that he'd first come to the manor with, are made of. In the light, Tim notices that there is a faint pattern in the fabric, of swirls and shapes that are almost imperceptible to the eye.
The top half is a normal shirt, a darker shade to the rest, and it's tucked into large baggy trousers that are tight around Damian's ankles. He's barefoot against the training mats, and whenever he steps down, the trousers jump with him. There's another piece of fabric, the same colour as the rest of his training clothes, wrapped tightly around his waist.
If Tim's to be honest, Damian looks cool. He also, if he's being honest, has no idea why Damian is asking him what he thinks. It must be a trap.
"Uh," Tim starts, very aware of the expectant gaze Bruce is watching them both with from the computer, "Looks good."
Damian sniffs, "Of course it does. It mimics the sort of clothing I wore back in the League for training. Not an exact replica, but Pennyworth and Brown assisted me in sewing a lookalike."
Tim waits for Bruce to stand up and say something that would upset everyone for three days, or for Damian to fall silent and get that frustrated expression on his face whenever he offhandedly brings up his time with Ra's. Neither happens, and instead, Damian is still staring at Tim, and Bruce has gone back to inconspicuously listening in on their conversation while pretending to type up a case.
"You look like Princess Jasmine, you know, her trousers?" Tim continues stupidly in a hurry before one of them breaks first, somewhat nervous under the pressure. What else did they want him to say? Why was he still here, talking to Damian? Why hadn't he just gone home after patrol? Was Alfred taking this long to prepare dinner on purpose?
For a moment, Tim thinks Damian's going to explode. His expression becomes bright and surprised, body tense.
And then, to Tim's absolute horror, Damian smiles.
It's gone as soon as it appears, but Tim had definitely seen it. Scarecrow hadn't escaped Arkham (yet), so there was no way he was hallucinating that because of some terrible toxic gas. Tim can perhaps count the amount of times he's seen Damian smile one hand, and far too many of those situations include Tim bleeding.
(But there was also that time Tim had come over to drop something off for Bruce a couple months ago, and caught sight of Damian happily playing in the garden with Titus, looking younger and happier than Tim thought he was possibly capable of.)
"Well," Damian starts, visibly trying to conceal how pleased he is, for some reason, and Tim is not even bothering to hide his gobsmacked stare, "It is a fair comparison. Though, that film is a gross amalgamation of different cultures, Drake, not to be used when referring to true cultural pieces of clothing."
Tim blinks, "You've seen Aladdin?" It hadn't occurred to him that Damian had time for cartoon films in between eating the happiness of innocent children and planning world domination, or whatever it was that he did when he wasn't threatening the wellbeing of his family members.
Damian sniffs, somewhat scandalised, "Of course I have. Thomas and I found Grayson's old CDs."
Bruce grunts at his computer, "VHS tapes. Dick was a child before CDs were popular."
"VHS tapes," Damian amends, not even bothered by Bruce's very blatant eavesdropping, "In fact, we are to watch The Small Fish tomorrow after school."
"The Little Mermaid," Bruce corrects, amused.
Maybe Tim should check if Scarecrow had escaped Arkham and stuck some sort of hallucinating agent into their vents, because this entire conversation is proof that he's going crazy. Perhaps Damian's been kidnapped by an alien and replaced with a very realistic look alike, who likes wearing colourful hair clips and cool trousers and watches children's cartoons after school.
The alien theory only becomes more prevalent when Damian glares at Tim with an assessing look, "Have you seen The Little Mermaid, Drake?"
"I have, but it was a long time ago. When I was a kid."
"Well," Damian turns his back to Tim, briskly walking off to some corner of the cave to train, or do demonic rituals, or whatever, but he's still talking, "If you are feeling nostalgic, Thomas and I will be in his room at five tomorrow."
He's gone in a blink, and Tim would be a little worried he's lost sight of the kid if he wasn't so stunned by the conversation.
"Did he just invite me to watch The Little Mermaid?" Tim whispers to himself in disbelief.
Bruce, because he's got ridiculous hearing powers, and he's sitting a few feet away from him, grunts. He still sounds amused.
The next morning, Tim is eating a cone of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce as his first meal of the day, sneaking bites of Bernard's own cookie dough and brownie cup. His boyfriend had initially scowled at him for it, but ended up grabbing another spoon to share, since Tim insists he doesn't want his own.
"And then he invited me to watch The Little Mermaid after school today," Tim grumbles, mouth full of brownie ice cream, "Can you believe that?"
Bernard smiles, "That's cute. You should go."
Tim scoffs, but when Bernard doesn't immediately respond with his own laugh, Tim looks up in question. Bernard has his eyebrows raised, "Oh," Tim mumbles, "You're being serious."
"You don't get to see your younger brothers much," and there was a reason for that, "This might be a fun bonding activity!"
"A fun… bonding activity." Tim echoes unimpressed.
Bernard rolls his eyes with an easy smile, pulling his cup away when Tim tries to take another bite, holding it away and giving the boy a knowing look, "Come on, what's the worst that could happen?"
A lot. A lot of terrible, violent things could happen and end in Tim getting another internal organ removed. Obviously, Bernard doesn't need to know that, since explaining that his little brother is an assassin who's tried to kill him a bunch of times will only lead to more questions like your dad slept with an assassin? And wait, were you Robin?
As far as Bernard knows, there's always been some tension between Tim and his youngest sibling due to some insanely convoluted family drama that he's forgotten. His boyfriend isn't an idiot, hardly someone who doesn't notice the half-truths hidden in the ridiculous stories about custody battles and holidays that never happened — so he's at least a little aware of the bad blood between Tim and Damian.
Tim blinks at his boyfriend challengingly, and after a few more seconds of staring, Bernard gives up with a sigh and holds the cup of ice cream between them again.
He takes a bite and hums, "Well, I think it's nice that he's reaching out to you."
Tim scoops a huge chunk of cookie dough, but he can't find it in him to put it in his mouth. There's nothing to it, just another bite of ice cream. Tim is having a crisis.
Damian is reaching out to him. Tim isn't too in denial to pretend that isn't happening. Not to mention that it's causing some sort of domino effect, with Bruce looking the least stressed he has in months. Tim also heard a rumour (from Dick, so it's credibility is questionable) that Damian asked for Jason's number, and given there's been no serial murders in Crime Alley, Damian hasn't done anything to upset Jason.
(He wishes Cass was here to tell him if Damian is being genuine in his efforts, but she's off on a secret Oracle-sanctioned mission with Steph. Tim is really out of his depths here.)
He shrugs, "I guess I'll see if I have time."
It's not a yes I'll go, but from Bernard's pleased smile, Tim realises he seems to have lost whatever game this was.
Tim falls asleep five minutes into the opening credits, having stayed up last night checking if there had been any alien sightings in or around Gotham and reading Scarecrow's recent list of crimes and then got up early to eat ice cream for breakfast. Duke is asleep not long after, he imagines, since when he wakes up about twenty minutes later, the boy is sprawled out like a starfish, elbow digging into Tim's ribs, snoring loudly.
Tim blinks awake, wondering how mad Duke would be if Tim manoeuvres to kick him off the bed entirely so he can pull up the duvet — when he sees Damian.
The boy is sitting on the other side of Duke (who had wordlessly sat between the two of them, bless his heart), knees brought to his chest as he stares at the TV. It's an old one, one that has a DVD player built into it, and Tim had sputtered in surprise when Alfred wheeled it into the room for them. He didn't even know they still had one of these.
The bowl of banana chips lays abandoned in front of Damian, and instead all of his attention is on the screen, where the red haired mermaid is singing about wanting to be where the people are. She brushes her hair with a fork and stares wistfully at the water above her like it was the sky, and there's something distantly familiar about it to Tim. An old memory of cartoons and catchy songs, but he finds he can't focus on the film for long before he's looking back at Damian.
The boy doesn't even see him staring, too busy lost in the song. Damian looks transfixed, big green eyes reflecting blue and red as he watches the movie with childish enamourment. He huffs in bemusement when the red lobster makes a silly joke.
And well. Alright.
Tim closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep again, poking Duke in the side when he snores into his ear.
A long time ago, his mother had told him that a well fitting, tailored and custom made suit could be stronger than any armour you could wear. Tim is sure she meant armour in a metaphorical sense, representing the evil blood-sucking people of Gotham's high society as opposed to the real evil blood-sucking vampires that invade Gotham from time to time. How was Janet Drake to know that her son would literally be wearing armour one day?
Regardless, Tim reminds himself of the fact as he pulls down his blazer, tightening the cufflinks on his wrists absentmindedly. The punch bowl he's standing next to looks surprisingly appetising, and maybe Tim will drown himself in it just to speed the rest of the night along.
Wayne Enterprises is having its tri-monthly charity gala, and while Tim (and the rest of the Wayne's that weren't legally dead or living in another city) can slip out of other events such as these, it's hard to avoid them if they're taking place in your house. Alfred's made himself scarce as he usually does with these events, coordinating the staff and keeping an eye out for any overly friendly guests, but Tim's sure if he tries to sneak out he will be caught by the man — no amount of Bat training would help him out of that one.
"Why are you staring into the juice like that?" Duke suddenly asks, following Tim's empty gaze into the punch bowl with a frown, "Is it spiked?"
Tim blinks, "What? No! No of course not — wait… no. I've been standing here the whole time, I didn't see anyone slip any poisonous venom into it."
"Is that something that happens often?" Duke murmurs, taking a very obvious step away from the punch bowl.
Following him with a sigh, Tim murmurs, "Not recently."
"Well that's comforting," Duke says quietly, though he looks terribly amused when he looks over to Tim again, as they walk away from the food and drink tables and into the crowded ballroom, "How many of those were because of Jason?"
Tim's going to answer and ruin all of Duke's dreams when he has to tell him that it was in fact because of the Riddler and Poison Ivy (twice), when he catches an awkward group of people near the window seats. It's a strange cohort of colourful satin dresses and jumpsuits, flutes of champagne and ridiculously small sandwiches.
Then, standing in the centre of what looks to be Gotham's most dangerous gossip pool is a Damian Wayne.
"Oh no," Tim says out loud, catching Duke's attention.
"What is it?" He asks, leaning over his shoulder to see what's garnered such a reaction, "Is that — oh. Oh no."
"Someone should really get him out of there," Tim whispers like the crowd of middle-aged women would hear him from across the room and over the music, but makes absolutely no movement to actually do something about it. Not even when Damian barely suppresses a scowl at something one of the other ladies said to him, making the others laugh.
Duke takes one step forward before stopping, looking back at Tim's frozen frame in exasperation, "Dude!"
"Damian's a big boy, he can handle himself," Tim reasons, just as Damian staggers forward as one of the women rests a hand on his shoulders, pulling him to her side, "Oh fine! Fine! You stay here. I'll go."
Duke doesn't look convinced, "You sure you don't need back up?"
Tim might be a coward when it comes to willingly facing Gotham's high society, but he has many many years of fake smiles and reading in between passive aggressive compliments under his belt, and he isn't cruel to subject his younger brother to it. Duke could handle himself just fine, but less interactions with the gossips of Gotham was better for everyone.
So he shakes his head and strides forward, plastering a smile that would have made Brucie Wayne weep with pride, "Ladies! What's all this?"
The group turns to him in a flourish of satin and colour, unsettlingly white teeth blinding him with their grins. This was a mistake.
But he sees Damian relax ever so slightly at his impending figure, and maybe that's what makes him stand a little straighter, ready to face the music.
Mrs Knightly reaches out to pat him on the arm, and it's this movement that solidifies his place into the circle, "Timothy! Look how you've grown, why, you look more and more like Jack everyday!"
Tim doesn't let that comment affect him at all, even if it settles uncomfortably but warm in his stomach, "Oh you flatter me, Mrs Knightly. I see you've all met Damian?"
The only way to pull the little boy from the group would be to, unfortunately, draw attention back to him and then come up with an excuse. Damian should know this, it's a tactic they've used before in different situations, but he still looks at Tim with slight betrayal when the women turn back to him.
"Oh yes!" Ms Davis picks up quickly, pinching Damian's cheek with her perfectly manicured fingers, "He is absolutely delightful! And look at him, he's a perfect little copy of Bruce!"
Tim glares at her hand, and the reddening area on Damian's face from her pinching, and pushes down the urge to smack her hand away from him. Though, he's more surprised that Damian hasn't done it first. His first gala had been a PR nightmare, with apologies written by hand and sent to a man's home and reparation funds for his ruined one of a kind Armani suit.
But the boy infront of him is gripping the side of his trousers, glaring but not reacting to the invasion of personal space.
Tim isn't sure he likes this version of Damian.
"Ms Davis, do remove your hand," Tim says clearly, smiling with his teeth, "You're hurting my brother."
Damian is just as startled by Tim's accusatory statement as the women are, Ms Davis pulling her hand away and holding it to her chest. Everyone is decidedly uncomfortable now, and although Tim's heart is about to burst straight out of his throat, this is the perfect moment to grab Damian and make a run for it.
Of course, that is until Mrs Knightly laughs boisterously, "My! You do have Janet's wit, don't you Timothy?"
She very clearly doesn't mean it as a compliment, and while the Drake's hadn't had the most conventional of relationships when they were alive, Tim feels offended on his mother's behalf. She probably would have replied with a scathingly backhanded compliment. Tim thinks it's about time someone pointed out that Mrs Knightly's husband is very obviously cheating on her with his assistant.
Mrs Knightly can either read his mind or see into the future, because she barely gives him a chance to get the words out of his mouth before she's looking down at Damian, something cruel in her eyes as she blinks through dark lashes.
"Speaking of, who did you say your mother was dear?" She asks with a false tone of casualness, smiling like something was amusing about the question.
Tim stiffens. He's so shocked by the sudden dismal of him and subsequent attack on Damian that he swallows his tongue.
"I didn't." Damian states like ice. An awkward silence befalls the group, who smile at each other nervously. Someone chuckles, glancing between Tim's silently fuming exterior and Mrs Knightly's indifference.
She waves him off, taking a sip from her champagne and turning to her friends with a raised brow, "Well that is unfortunate dear, but can't say I'm surprised. Bruce has always been a free spirit — though many of us assumed he would settle after having so many children. Then you came along!"
Good grief, Tim's never wanted to punch a middle-aged woman more in his life.
Damian looks away as the group returns to their more colourful laughter, quickly recovering or choosing to ignore the period of awkwardness from Tim's attitude. He grinds his teeth together, jaw tight and locked as he glares at the curtains behind him. Tim watches the movement.
Then Damian looks up for a moment, and his eyes are clouded. Perhaps it's the lighting in the ballroom, or the cacophony of colourful dresses that are swallowing him whole, but Damian's entire face is ashen and diluted, features narrowed.
He is trying very, very hard to hold back his anger.
Tim might have been proud, if he didn't feel sick to his stomach. Damian's going to speak up any second now, insult everyone and then walk away without a single regret. Maybe he'll even smash a flute of champagne for dramatics.
"I do remember how you were at the last gala," Someone else in the group continues, "Your manners have improved greatly!"
Mrs Knightly pats Tim on the back, "Must have learnt it from Timothy."
Damian's hands twitch.
And then, they relax against his side. Damian gives up.
Tim's heart lurches forward.
"Mrs Knightly, your husband is cheating on you and the Francisco Goya painting hung up in your living room is a dupe," the words tumble from his mouth uncontrollably, and before anyone can react or slap him, he reaches forward to grab Damian's hand, "Goodnight!"
He runs with Damian's cold hand in his and Duke (who was very not subtly hiding behind the curtain listening to the conversation) hot on his heels just as Mrs Knight drops her drink in horror.
Later that night, Bruce gathers them all in the study. He's still wearing his suit, though the top buttons of his shirt are undone and his blazer sits haphazardly on the desk behind him. It's silent for a moment, the four of them just staring at each other interchangeably, listening to Titus' footsteps against the wooden floor.
Duke breaks first, whistling in surpise when Bruce moves his hand away from his face, "Damn, who did that to you?"
Bruce stares at Tim, and Tim stares at the red handprint on his dad's face, "Mrs Knightly."
"She was insulting Damian first." Tim blurts.
"I did not need you to get involved," Damian grumbles from the other side of the room, Titus standing on guard behind him, "Now her entire perception of us will be forever dependent on this event."
"I wasn't going to stand there while she said those things," Tim counters, already standing up from his seat with anger rippling beneath his skin, though he's not sure who it's for, "You weren't saying anything, so I did!"
"You had to reveal her husband's affair in front of everyone?" Damian scoffs, crossing his arms and turning away, "Grow up, Drake."
"You are unbelievable!" Tim throws his hands into the air.
Damian glares at him, "And you need to contain your anger! You were childish!"
"That's rich coming from —" Oh.
"I do remember how you were at the last gala. Your manners have improved greatly!"
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling harshly, "All of you, go to bed."
Tim goes to open his mouth, desperate to say something, but Bruce holds out his arm, pointing to the door where Duke is already tiptoeing out, "Bed."
The next morning, Tim is awake first (well, second to Alfred) and eating a bowl of porridge with fruit. If he stares long enough, the blueberries and strawberries start to look like sad faces, though some look just like Bruce on a bad day. Tim eats those with guilt and a heavy heart.
Damian walks in a few minutes later, looking just as terrible as Tim feels, and he stands behind his chair with purpose. Tim doesn't acknowledge his presence immediately, his own consciousness organising itself in his mind, but once the bile in his throat goes back down, he looks up.
Damian glares at him, "I am sorry for calling you childish last night."
This must be the first time Damian has ever apologised to Tim. Moving right along.
Tim nods, oddly choked up as he clears his throat, "I'm sorry for causing a scene last night."
And that's that.
Damian sniffs in agreement, like he's a seventy year old man stuck in a tiny thirteen year old body with atrocious bed hair, sitting down opposite him with certainty. There's no one else at the table with him, and although Alfred is only a room away in the kitchen, Tim feels as though this is a new and unexplored territory. There's no Bruce, or Duke, to buffer their interactions.
Just Tim and Damian, brother extraordinaires.
There's already a plate in front of the boy, and Tim watches silently as his brother starts to meticulously stack hashbrowns onto it, picking out the ones that had been slightly overcooked (on purpose).
"But," Tim starts, ignoring the way Damian stiffens, "I'm not sorry for defending you. No one deserves to be spoken down to like that, especially not you."
Damian relaxes, staring down at his plate of hashbrowns, unblinking, "Thank you."
"Signal says we will be watching Bambi tomorrow, with father," Robin tells him when they're sitting on a roof a few feet from the docks, watching the empty area for signs of a drug shipment.
Batman is perched somewhere below them, for easier access to jump in to catch the smugglers, but also to hide in the shadows in case Robin is required to fly down to cause a distraction first. Red Robin isn't needed here, not really. But Batman had asked if he was free to join their patrol tonight, and Red Robin had just wrapped up his own cases, so he was indeed free.
"He threatened me into inviting you." Robin finishes with a grumble, looking away quickly when Red Robin puts down his binoculars to stare at him.
For no reason at all, Red Robin thinks the boy is lying. This, for once, amuses him.
"Sorry kid, but I can't tomorrow," Red Robin tells him, and he finds he's genuinely disappointed that he can't join them, even if he'd just fallen asleep the last time they watched a movie, "But maybe that's a good thing. Bambi makes me cry everytime I watch it. Good luck."
Robin regards him for a moment, and Red Robin realises he's checking if this is a joke or not. Once the boy decides that this is indeed banter and not a double-sided blade, he scoffs, "It is just a fictional film about woodland animals."
"Bambi is way more than just a film about an deers and bunnies," Red Robin tells him, looking back at the docks. There's some sort of movement on the north side, "I think you'll like it."
Robin looks like he wants to say something more about that, but then Batman gruffs a low engaging before he's racing down into the docks, and after a moment, Robin shoots down on his grapple hook, right on Batman's tail.
Red Robin watches them for a moment, fighting side by side, back to back. Robin kicks a man in the head before he can reach for Batman, and Batman pulls another back by his feet before they lunge at Robin. It's a perfect, well oiled machine, decades of training and building a legacy that has somehow survived a handful of different owners. Knowledge passed down through yellow capes and small batarangs.
For the first time, Red Robin notices that he's not filled with a deep sensation of jealousy when watching Batman and Robin. He doesn't imagine himself in the boy's shoes, reminiscing about a time when he had been the one to jump down into the fray to save Batman.
He finds that when Damian does a backflip off a staggering man to kick another one, he's proud instead.
(Is this how Dick felt about them, after a while?)
Red Robin jumps to his feet when a man about five times Robin's weight throws the kid over his back, and Robin lands heavily with a painful crash onto the concrete. He doesn't get back up immediately.
He waits. The boy doesn't move. Though Batman is preoccupied, his movements become desperate, fists flying around to make a path to Robin who's catching the breath that was knocked out of him on impact. He tries to turn onto his front, but the movement is cut off by what looks like pain across his sides (cracked ribs? Bruised spine?).
The man who had thrown him over shakes out of his stupor, grabbing a stray plank of wood from the side as he stalks over to the boy writhing on the ground a few feet away.
Red Robin waits, his foot on the edge of the roof.
Slowly, he sees Robin's arm come back to his ear, and then there's a voice in the comms, young and exasperated.
"Are you going to stand there all night and be useless or are you going to help me?"
Maybe Red Robin's the one who's going crazy and not the rest of his family, because he's never been more entertained by someone calling him useless. The insult lacks the malice it used to be laced with, the cruel and violent implications in every letter. Now, it just sounds like his kid brother trying to get a rise out of him.
Red Robin grins, and jumps down to save his younger brother (who didn't need saving, not really, he just needed some time).