Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian didn't like school. Well, that school. The supposedly prestigious Gotham Academy. He'd been educated by the best teachers and professors at Nanda Parbat. Everything they were teaching in those stinking classrooms he'd already learned years ago, but Father had been very clear about it. All Waynes had to have at least a high school diploma, and unfortunately for him, going to Gotham Academy was the only way to get it.

That's how much he could have endured that pack of teenagers six hours a day, five days a week. He'd climbed the mountains of Nanda Parbat at just six years old with a sprained wrist, and he'd claimed his first life at four (something he was no longer proud of). It was nothing to him. But the problem laid elsewhere. A problem with dark circles under his eyes and an intelligence that was too sharp for his own good.

The night before school started, Tim had been very confusing. First, he'd knocked on their door before they went to sleep. They hadn't had a patrol that night. The reason? The school.

They hadn't let him go the first year, claiming that he needed time to acclimatize to American customs and life, which, to be honest, they were right about. The Americansbehavedin an unbearably different way that almost made him tear his hair out. Especially with his obsession with building everything so it could only be reached by car or bus. It took so little effort to use his legs.

Anyway, when Tim opened the door without waiting for an answer, Damian threw a knife at him which he ignored swiftly and sat on the penguin-patterned duvets. Damian swiveled his chair around so that his back was to the desk where he was drawing and he was face to face with Drake.

“What do you want?”

“Tomorrow classes start.”

“I am well aware of that.” silence. “Then?”

“Look, I know you’re not too keen on going to Gotham Academy, and I don’t either, but there’s no other option.” His voice sounded tired, but Damian could discern a hint of anticipation. “Whether you like it or not, you can’t stab anyone there, not even me. Okay?”

“You think I don't know? The importance of keeping our identities preserved is more important than you and your gang of idiots."

Tim frowned.

“My friends are not idiots.”

“They associate with you.”

"And?"

“And therefore they are also ulterior morons.”

Tim couldn't help but sigh and pass a hand by his hair.

“School life is very different from what you've known. You can hate me all you want while we're patrolling or training, but remember, I'm family too.”

“Yes, of course.” He deadpanned. “As familiar as a garden of worms. If you’re done, Drake, I order you to leave my room.”

He stood up and brushed the nonexistent dust off his pants before heading for the door without once looking at his enraged little brother. “Geez, don’t bite me… I was just trying to give you some advice.”

The door closed with a soft click and Damian returned to give his attention to his drawings, on getting those geometric figures to look like they will take volume and fur. Titus was not a simple drawing task “I don’t need your stupid advice” He muttered to himself almost without realizing it.

The hours flew by, too focused on making sure the front legs weren't too long compared to the hind legs, which looked like two sausage stumps. And the snout... it's better not to mention his first attempts and his blessed perspective. He'd had excellent cartography teachers, but his knowledge of map making wasn't helpful at all. It was then, in the midst of his sulk, already tired of erasing Titus's body over and over again, that the door reverberated to the distinctive rhythm of Dick's knocking.

The aforementioned man poked his head out without waiting for permission. Again. That made two in one day. He should install a fingerprint lock or something similar.

“Hey baby bat, it’s dinner time, shall we go?”

He dropped his pencil to the side of his notebook and frowned.

“Weren’t you supposed to be going back to Blüdhaven this afternoon?”

Dick gave him a small smile as he waved his hand trying to dispel the question.

“Supposedly, but tomorrow a certain little brother starts school. There’s no way I’m missing that.”

“How childish you are sometimes.”

"What would be the point of life if not? Come on, everyone's waiting for us."

Damian narrowed his eyes but followed him.

“What do you mean by everyone?”

“I’ve even managed to hold off Jason,” he said, his voice brimming with pride. “I may rarely blackmail, and I’m usually the main victim of it, but the few times I do, I devastate with everything.”

“That is still lame, Grayson.”

"Whatever you say, baby bat.”

Damian just snorted as they descended the grand staircase. From the first steps, he could hear the bickering and chattering of his stepbrothers, stepsister, and… Brown, who was screaming like a strangled goose.

“Yeah, haha! How awful! And to think that tomorrow we have to go back to that shithole. God, I hope it doesn't happen to us again.”a la Evans in history or I'll throw myself off the docks. I swear!"

“Language” Growled Father.

“It’s not like it ain't true. Last year, you argued with her like four times because she refused to accept the way I wrote essays,” Tim chimed in. His soft voice caught him with unexpected tenderness. “She almost got fired when you brought in all those professors from the world history department at the university. Quite a spectacle.”

“¿Is that classist mummy still teaching?” Jason spoke up this time. “Woah, I’m surprised she hasn’t been fired yet.”

“Being the headmaster’s sister-in-law has its perks,” Tim replied as Damian and Dick entered the dining room. The little boy could see Red Robin’s signature sardonic smile.

“Are you guys done talking nonsense?” he said as he took a seat right in front of Drake.

“Someone’s hungry, huh,” Todd said, ruffling his hair. “Or are you just nervous? Piyare, you've done things far more dangerous than going to school. But I don't blame you. I'd be mortified if I had to go back to those stuck-up classes, too.” 

“Master Jason, if I recall correctly, you used to love going to school and learning new subjects.”

“Like a total Nerd,” Dick added before he could stop himself. Jason frowned and gave him a look that would have made anyone else tremble with fear, but how could he persuade the most violent and vicious Robin of them all? It only made him laugh.

"Fuck off."

Dick reached out, placing his hand on the taller man's shoulder.

"Done."

“You son of…” He rose from his chair and launched himself at Richard, completely ignoring the plates of salad and garnishes on the table. He managed to land a blow on the top of his head before a certain butler cleared his throat.

Jason stood still, as if frozen in time, before backing away painfully slowly. Pieces of arugula fell gracelessly from his sweatshirt, and vinegar and oil stains darkened everywhere.

“Is this behavior worthy of a family dinner, Master Jason?”

He looked away. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.

“No.”

“So why did you do it?”

“‘Cause that dickface made me angry. Doing the most stupid shit he can come across.” 

“Master Dick, do you want to say something to your brother?”

“Nope. Thanks, Alfie.” The butler just sighed as he shook his head.

“Then I'm afraid I'll accidentally forget to buy that cereal you like so much.”

“I am truthfully sorry for my disruptive actions, little wing, should you have the grace of bringing me your forgiveness…” 

“The fuck? Do you think you're Shakespeare?”

“At least I am better than Hemingway.”

Jason just sighed before continuing to eat as if nothing had happened while Dick took a look at Alfred's face before continuing to eat happily.

Damian couldn't help grumbling in his heart. His stepbrothers were too childish, even Jason had become more childish after an awkward reconciliation with Bruce. Even now he and Drake could easily tolerate each other in a room alone, as if the attack on the Titan’s Tower never had happened. He didn't know if that bothered him or surprised him. Was it so easy to forgive someone?

____________________________________________________

Clad in a snug polo shirt that Dick forced him into, along with straight pants that crunched with each step, Damian observed Gotham Academy through the windows of the sedan. It looked like the offices of Wayne Enterprises or a private university in Europe. Then he realized that he lacked a clear understanding of how schools ought to appear, yet the place seems familiar enough to just exit the car with just a slightly annoyed grunt, giving a nod to Alfred and ignoring the side eye of Drake.

He didn't comment anything to the major, and he didn't bother to offer a word or two of encouragement before striding toward a group of five people in whom he recognized only Brown.

“Yee you after school, master Damian. I will be over this zone waiting.”

“Understood. See you later, Penyworth”

He nodded one last time and opened the car door,letting himself fall to the ground without a sound. He closed the door behind him and went inside the surge of students, some with happy faces at meeting their friends and others with heavy faces at the thought of having to spend most of their time in that place.

Alfred observed him vanish into the school, but the traffic officer motioned him to keep moving, blowing a whistle. Damian’s dark backpack merged with a crowd of other kids. He was sure he noticed his shoulders tremble and a glimmer of fear in his gaze. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, contemplating whether he should enhance the tale of Damian’s inaugural day at school, at least for Bruce’s mental health.

It didn't take long for Damian to find his assigned class, with a woman with a fair amount of gray hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and a suit so baggy he momentarily thought she was wearing a potato sack.

She looked him up and down for a few seconds before twisting her nose.

“Are you the new student?”

"Yeah."

“Fine.” she said, placing a small, chubby hand on his shoulder. Damian had to make a colossal effort not to flinch or shake it off from him. He waited next to her for a couple of minutes until the class filled with people and then, they entered together.

All eyes were on him.

Despite his demeanor, Damian was not particularly accustomed to being the focal point. At least, not in Gotham. His father had welcomed him into high society as his esteemed son, returning from "international schooling" for most of his life, giving him a chance to adjust to American customs. However, the affluent of Gotham were not so unlike the League of Assassins in how their gazes seemed perpetually on the lookout for errors, exhibiting pretended indifference while remaining watchful. He experienced the same sensation while observing those children. In that moment, he was neither an Al-Ghul nor a Wayne. He was a target. But who was the predator?

He took a few deep breaths as the teacher released his shoulder.

“Good morning everyone. As many of you know, I'm Mrs. Evans, and I'll be your homeroom teacher and World History teacher this year.” She introduced herself. “We have a new student this year, Dimien El-Jewel Wayne. Do you want to introduce yourself to the rest of the class, Dimien?”

Damian frowned. He only knew they were talking about him because of the Wayne.

“My name is pronounced Damian, Al-Ghul, Wayne, Mrs. Evans.”

“Oh, really? Those Arabic names are too difficult to pronounce,” she said, making lesst of the situation. “They should be said exactly as they sound, don’t you think, Demien?”

“No.” Deadpanned. She frowned. “And it is Damian,”

“Okay. Sit down, will you?” She made a vague gesture with his hand. “Rodric, be a good boy and give up your seat for Demien.”

“Damian.”

Rodric obeyed without question, but he sent a dirty look in her direction. Apparently, he wasn't too keen on leaving the front row and his friends behind. Damian wasn't too keen on the idea either. Why were they putting him there when there were so many seats available in the middle? That question seemed to be written all over his face, as Mrs. Evans added.

“It's good for you to put yourself in the front row, especially coming from a country like Pakistan.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, isn’t that true that Pakistan’s schools are really behind American ones?”

Damian frowned but held his tongue. It wouldn't be good for the reputation of their civilian lives if he put in a fight on the first day of school. What would his father say? And Drake? The last thing he wanted was that half-dead toothpick laughing in his face.

He sat down at his assigned desk and took his Nightwing pencil case and notebook out of his backpack, courtesy of the aforementioned, and began to copy the schedule that the teacher had copied onto the board.

The rest of the day passed unnoticed, with some taunts from his companions that he could easily ignore. It wasn't that it didn't bother him, far from it; those words tore at his pride like the prince of the Al-Ghul.

But that didn't mean he didn't react in any way. So when night fell and the wind caressed his wavy locks, he took out his frustration on the unkind goons he encountered.

He landed several right hooks on a man stealing a wallet, kicked another man trying to open an ATM in the lower back, sending him flying a few meters, and nearly planted a Batarang in the shoulder of a drug dealer… It definitely wasn't Damian's best night. Batman didn't comment on anything throughout the patrol, silently observing and minimizing the collateral damage of his little killer ball. However, once they arrived at the cave…

“Damian, are you okay?”

“As good as expected, father,” he replied dryly.

“I don’t wanna pry and you don’t have to tell me, but perhaps you were nervous for your first day of classes? You were a little bit more rough than usual out there.”

“Like I said, it’s nothing.”

Bruce glanced at Tim, who had already settled into the chair in front of the Batcomputer, filling in the reports of the night as well as his own follows up on his cases. He returned the sight, looked away and shrugged.

They hadn't seen each other all day. He didn't know anything.

Damian turned and walked up the stairs before they would try to ask more or explain more about his day.

Unfortunately, that situation was not the only one.

There was more, oh, so much more than he cared to admit in just two weeks.

____________________________________________________

“Hey, for being an Arab you have a good English accent. Is it because it was conquered by England?”

Damian didn't turn his head toward... Eric? Ethan? Eduard? He hadn't bothered to learn his name. After all, he'd only be in these walls for a couple of years before he could leave with the title and without raising suspicions. He didn't need to torelate the rest of his classmates.

“Pakistan is not an Arab country,” he found himself saying with some weariness. “It's an Asian country with its own culture and language. It's another matter that there's an Muslim majority, you ignorant.”

The class erupted in muffled laughter, and Damian couldn't help but frown. Had he said something funny? He'd just corrected the brat. He managed to hear a few whispers along the lines of "“Did you hear what that monkey said?” “He should have stayed in his country speaking hut hubuhu.” “He can’t even pronounce words properly.”

He had encountered those phrases in the past. It was nothing new. But yet, they reminded him of when his mother introduced him to his father, her grip firm on his shoulder, while Bruce anticipated an act from him that would establish his identity as an Al-Ghul. An act of brutality and aggression. The weight of unmet expectations loomed over him, filled with the fear of disappointing by failing to fulfill unspoken standards.

Damian didn’t sink into his chair, despite his intense desire to vanish. He held a stiff posture as the teacher entered the classroom and began discussing ratios and comparisons, topics he already mastered. His notebook remained untouched, although his fingers were tightly wrapped around the pencil he had sharpened the previous night. Why did he even do it? 

It was pointless.

That night, he fled Batman's shadow and went on patrol alone. He didn't care that he had benched him for two weeks. He could always go to Grayson's apartment those weekends and patrol with him in Blühaven. Not a big of a deal.

“Hey,” Drake interrupted his escape. “Do you want to watch a show or something? We’ve barely had any time for ourselves, and I never find you in the halls. We can also chat if you’re up to.”

Damian clicked his tongue. He was obviously avoiding him at school. And in the Batcave. And, well, in general. As much as they got along better now, he felt they weren't close enough to tell him about trivial things like what happened that morning. He didn't want to put any more weight on his shoulders.

“Tt, don’t be a pain. I’m going to sleep.”

Drake took a step back, his expression dazed, as if an invisible dagger had been stabbed into his shoulder.

“Uh, okay. If you need anything… well, you know where I am.”

Damian nodded before disappearing into the mansion. Unlike other days, the ancient walls embraced him warmly, as if they knew the reason behind the discomfort in his heart. He wanted to trust Timothy and the comfort he provided. But he could do it alone. He wasn't a small child.

____________________________________________________

He couldn't do it.

And he wasn't talking about enduring Evans's persistent remarks about his ethnicity and her doubts about whether he was truly his father's son. Not to mention her insistence on labeling him as Arab over and over again. He could correct her the first few times, but after the fifth, it was starting to get annoying. It wasn't the intrusive questions about his mother or his way of dressing outside of his uniform, either. Why did she keep thinking he only wore robes when Gotham had the most atrocious weather for them? She spoke as if she'd never seen paparazzi photos of him before.

No.

His breaking point came in the worst possible way. And in a way that was completely unexpected for the boy.

They were in the middle of a class on what Damian had renamed modern history of the United States, because of course, why would Americans study events older than them and outside their country? How stupid., Mrs. Evans skinned his ears filling them with irrelevant data and dates that Damian wasn't paying attention to. Before he knew it, the class topic had veered toward the Middle East.

The boy behind him, Rodric, reached across his desk and leaned close to the back of his neck. It took all his willpower not to knock him away when he heard something that made his skin crawl.

“Terrorist.”

The entire class had fallen into a deathly silence, so the word echoed throughout the tables in the room. Damian didn't need to turn around to know that everyone was staring at him, and that surely a lot of them had a smug smile on.

Reflexively, his fingers grasped the desk's edge, his eyes wide and unmoving, fixed straight ahead. The initial thought that flashed through his mind was that Rodric's stance, bent over the back of his desk, left him severely exposed. The second thought was that if he spun around right then, he could smash his hand onto Rodric's head, causing an indentation in his forehead from the metal bar of Damian's chair. But doing so he would dishonor his father.

The third was a sharp reminder of the sins he collected at the Assassins League.

His eyes stung, but not in the same way as when blood got into his eyes. What he didn't understand was the sudden urge to cry.

Mrs. Evan's fingers drummed on his desk, her brown eyes squinting beneath disheveled hair, above some prominent wrinkles. “I realize it's challenging to address the shortcomings of your people, Demien-” She mispronounced again. Damian had stopped correcting several days ago. “These are tragedies recognized globally.” She mentioned refugees and broken families, but Damian ceased paying attention because it seemed less like sharing information and more like an attempt to make him apologize for actions taken by others. 

Or by himself.

Behind him, Rodric smirked, and he could sense it. He felt the stares directed at him whenever Saudi Arabia was mentioned, despite having made it clear that he hailed from Pakistan. 

He didn't wait for the class to finish. He grabbed his backpack and ran out of class, ignoring the low laughter of his classmates and Evans's reproaches. The long, dark hallways seemed to close in on him, tearing at the sleeves of his uniform. He could barely see the large glass windows that showed the insides of other classrooms as he ran, blurring the faces of students more interested in knowing why the youngest of the Waynes was running like crazy through the halls.

He went down the stairs two at a time, feeling his breath burn in his throat and his vision blurring. He no longer knew where he was going; his only thought was to get as far away from that place as possible. So when he entered the copse of grounds and the treetops covered any glimpse of the school, Damian allowed himself to collapse onto the floor.

He crawled against the nearest tree and placed his backpack on his chest while letting his pearls fall freely. He was an assassin after all. A forsaken mistake.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. Who was there? How come he hadn't heard him? He raised his head to meet Drake's calculating eyes.

“Hey there buddy, how are you feeling?” His tone was soft, almost… comforting. Very different from his casual voice or Red Robin's placating a victim. “You don’t have to tell me right now, but I’ll be here keeping you company. Okay?”

Damian just moaned in response. But he didn't push him away, nor did he push away the hand that was rubbing circles on his back. He didn't know how long it took before he stopped crying next to Drake. He looked up and said in a hollow voice.

“Do you think I’m a terrorist?”

If that question caught him off guard, he didn't show it.

“What makes you think that?”

“I… I killed a lot of people in my time in the league.”

“You were a baby who didn't distinguish right from wrong. Would you kill someone now?” said as a matter of fact.

“No, but… I’m not a good person.”

“In what sense?” The calm in his voice didn’t make him withdraw into himself as he had anticipated days ago. “And yet, being part of the sect of Rha’s doesn’t make you a terrorist, far from it.”

“I tried to kill you, Drake. Not just once. Several times. I don’t even know how you put up with me.”

“Baby bat, have you ever thought that I wanted to have a little brother? You may not have been the easiest child in the world to get along with. But you know I love challenges.” Timothy pressed their foreheads together for a couple of seconds as he cradled her face with his free hand. “Do you feel like talking about why you think about terrorists?”

Damian fixed his gaze on his hands.

“Today in class with Mrs. Evans,” he began slowly, oblivious to the other’s frown. “They were talking about terrorism, and a kid behind told me… and… and then the teacher… she… she said… and I… I… ugh.”

He rubbed his sleeve across his face in an attempt to wipe away the tears and snot, but all he managed to do was spray it everywhere. Tim didn't say anything about the mess on his face. He just took a handkerchief out of his backpack and gently wiped it.

There were moments like those where Tim remembered that after all the bravado, Damian was still a child. His little brother.

“Shhh it’s okay Dami. Can you let me help you with this? I’ll make sure that hell of a teacher never dares to look you in the eyes. Okay?”

The child just nodded, letting himself be carried away by his brother's warmth.

“Timothy,” she said in a small voice. “Can we go home?”

“Of course.” He picked Damian up and lifted him off the floor. “But first, let me pay the principal a visit. You don’t have to come into the office with me if you don’t want to.”

He nodded again while he melted in Tim’s arms. He didn’t remember what happened after that. Maybe he fell asleep or didn’t bother to pay attention, because the next thing he was aware of was being seated on the sedan’s passenger seat. Penyworth driving while whispering

To Tim.

At home, Father didn't say anything either; he just looked at them both proudly, nodded and smiled before disappearing into the study. That night, he and Drake had a Poirot movie marathon, constantly trying to solve the mystery before each other, and eventually falling asleep on Drake's shoulder.

The next day, a professor whose face he had never met before introduced himself as their new tutor.

He never knew what Timothy had said to the director to make such a quick change, but whatever it was, he was grateful from the bottom of his heart. Nor that he would ever admit it.

Chapter Text

“Drop it Demon brat!”

“Not even in your wildest dreams, Timbirol”

Tim groaned as his grip on the controller tightened.

“Don’t you start it too.”

“Then let go.” Taking advantage of the tight grip, Damian put one foot on his face and the other on his solar plexus.

"Ugh, disgusting." She shook her head. "As soon as I'm done with you, I'm going to kill Jason for giving you the idea for the nicknames."

“Stop overthinking it because victory is… mine!” Timothy’s sweaty hands finally gave way, slamming him down onto the sofa. “Good luck next time trying to overcome your Timberline ineptitude.”

"Oh, come on, you know that one particularly irritates me."

Damian let out a clear, almost childlike laugh, but the sound of footsteps in the hallway cut it short. The door opened and Cain and Grayson entered, both with raised eyebrows.

“Little brother.” She called with a small smile.

“We heard laughter. Was it you, Dami?"

The accused frowned. It was the first time he'd laughed aloud since killing someone. He hadn't even realized he'd done it. Since that day in the woods with Timothy, he felt all his reservations about him had vanished. Perhaps because he'd seen him at his most pathetic and hadn't mocked him? Perhaps. He didn't want to dwell on it. What he hadn't expected was that he'd end up laughing with him in the family room. In a place where anyone could hear them.

“Who else would be making fun of me so much?” Tim said before he could answer. A lump settled in his throat.

“Whatever, Drake. This isn’t fun anymore,” he declared before throwing the remote at his head and storming out of the room. He ignored Timothy’s groan of pain and the bewilderment in his older brothers’ voices.

He shouldn't. He didn't have to show such weaknesses. He was the perfect heir to the two most prestigious worlds, and it wasn't fitting for him to let his guard down.just because he did something like befriending him.

It had to be better than that.

He didn't leave his room again, not even when the clock struck eight and Tim's head peeked around the door, announcing that dinner was ready. That night it was stir-fried tofu with vegetables, one of the dishes Alfred had decided to try, just to give him a little boost for the next day's classes. The problem was, he wasn't hungry at all. His appetite had vanished hours ago thanks to her older stepsiblings. Not that he wanted to see them after such a display.

He was used to starving.

The night passed quietly, listening to the roar of his brothers' vehicles before they disappeared onto the highway toward the heart of Gotham. He knew he wouldn't see most of them again for at least another month. Grayson had a mission with the Titans that promised to last at least a couple of weeks. Cain was a free spirit whose every move was unpredictable, but he'd noticed that this time he'd brought light luggage. Todd hadn't been seen after a fight in a while with Father… The only one left was Tim and his new way of getting closer to each other.

And Father. But he didn't count.

Just as he couldn't count on either of them, he had a new problem he'd recently encountered. Again, it was related to that damned hellhole of a school.

It was true that he didn't need to go to the cafeteria to eat. Pennyworth ate his meals following his strict vigilante regimen with the added twist that he was vegan, which were two very difficult things to come by in the mysterious meals they served. Anyone who thought about the Gotham Academy cafeteria would assume the food was fine and high-quality, but when there aren't even kitchens left thanks to the various attacks by different Arkham inmates, a catering service can't even meet half of any normal high school requirements.

Thanks to this, he could eat peacefully anywhere in the school, such as the library, the grove behind the school, or even the courtyard. But if there was one thing he had noticed since he started attending, it was the silent ritual all the students followed of going to the cafeteria to eat at the various mahogany tables, even if they didn't take food from the school itself.

Among them was Timothy Drake. Unique in his kind and in the world.

Not because he was one of the best detectives in the world, even surpassing Batman or Mr. Terrific, whose personality seemed to attract all the sunbeams of the galaxy and their respective shadows.

No.

His friends didn't eat from the catering either; they usually shared Pennyworth's food, and in return, they gave Drake all sorts of cookies, strangely flavored chips, and especially mango-flavored Monsters. That drink reigned supreme, and there were days when he could drink four cans in half an hour. It wasn't surprising that there were days when the clone would visit them, screaming for Drake, filled with terror.

That day was not very different.

The grand dining hall opened before Damian once more, allowing an almost endless stream of people to come and go. The ceilings were high and meticulously preserved, with small vaults and chiseled beams that reminded him of those in the mansion's great hall. Though the Academy's ceilings weren't painted. The floor was covered in tiny cobblestones that formed a mosaic in the center of the room in the shape of the city's coat of arms. The tables, arranged in neat columns throughout the room, were already nearly full by the time he arrived.

It didn't take long to find Timothy and his group of friends huddled around one of the tables in the center, shouting and nibbling at the eggplant and zucchini lasagna Pennyworth had made that morning. They had also scattered cookies across the table. They were dripping chocolate, a couple of milkshakes of various flavors and, of course, energy drinks.

The other tables watched them out of the corner of their eyes, their expressions a mixture of amusement and annoyance, not because of the spectacle they always put on, but because Timothy Drake-Wayne was always at the center of it all. Although now, with his arrival, some of those glances were always directed at him. Full of but in jest.

He paused in the doorway for a few moments, surveying the scene with a certain uncertainty. There was no room for him today either. The whispers were following him again today. He gripped one of the straps of his backpack tightly and turned on his heels.

Those commoners were not worthy of his presence.

He didn't need to eat at those tables like the other students. Much less eat next to his older brother and have a small sense of normalcy.

He and his quinoa salad were perfectly fine.

He walked down the corridors, getting further and further from the laughter and shouts broken only by the occasional rooster crowing, until he reached a rather solitary wing. He had discovered this small oasis of tranquility on his third day at school while avoiding that "racist harpy," as Timothy called her, who was trying to teach him to speak proper English. He had an exquisite accent. So it was quite a surprise to find this almost deserted area bathed in light. It almost seemed as if it had been waiting to be discovered.

Damian closed his eyes, letting the light in, warming up his skin before heading to a small corner where an old picture storage room stood. His little refuge, his little kingdom.

The quinoa didn't taste very good that day.

Although the drawings he managed to do at that time were very good. They didn't look like photographs, but they were far superior to those of the art teachers. It was something.

____________________________________________________

Red Robin jumped off the building before pulling the trigger of the grapple gun in an almost comical movement while Hood was hot on his heels.

It was a slow night; it seemed crime was too tired to slink through the darkest alleys, or perhaps it was the sight of Red Hood himself leaping freely alongside the bats when the night before he had painted an entire building with the blood of Black Mask's closest associates.

And Damian didn't care at all. Although he'd rather die again than admit it out loud, he thoroughly enjoyed it when his whole family played tag among the tangled rooftops. He even occasionally cracked a small smile when he saw them chasing each other, or Grayson trying to catch him. It was a completely different dynamic from what he was used to. No tension, no pressure, no countdown, and no risk of dying.

He squirmed beneath one of Gotham's tallest gargoyles, one of his favorites, watching Red Robin leap once more onto the grand avenue to avoid Hood's tackle. The lamplight reflected his older brother's smile, catching the steam from his breath. It was a beautiful, almost innocent scene, the kind he so painstakingly captured in his drawings, and which he would undoubtedly paint when he got home. With that thought, Red Robin vanished from sight, leaving a grumbling watchman on the rooftop before disappearing himself.

Damian didn't move from where he had been perched for a long time, blending in with a statue, not even when he felt a shadow fall behind him. He knew those footsteps.

"What is our little baby bat hiding here?"

“Nothing of your interest, Grayson.”

“Really?” A small smile danced on her lips. “You know what I think? You’re hiding so you don’t have to run.”

Damian rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Nightwing, you're a genius. If you're done bothering me, go away. I don't want to get caught because of you."

The older brother sighed and touched his shoulder.

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Robin. It’s your turn!” he yelled just before leaping off the building with a triple somersault. Damian couldn’t help but sigh as he watched him disappear. He just wanted to watch them play, not have to chase after them too. He stood up and fired his grapple gun.

It didn't take long for him to spot his first victim. Red Hood was at the end of an alley, returning a purse to a prostitute who was trembling like a lamb. He didn't know what they were talking about; his father didn't let him near anything involving sex workers. And he wasn't curious to go near it either. He had better things to do. But he waited. With a bit of luck, he wouldn't have to look for anyone else. But the minutes began to slip by in the cold night air, and Todd didn't seem to be finishing up anytime soon. Suddenly, his helmet moved in his direction and stared at him. He waited patiently for the older man to say something, and it didn't surprise him when his… It did sound full of life.

“I have a situation that will take me quite a while. Go catch someone else, Robin.”

Damian simply nodded before disappearing among the rooftops, a bitter taste in his mouth. It wasn't his words; there was nothing wrong with them. It was his tone. His raspy, cold voice, the same tone his grandfather used to punish him for his mistakes. 

Phantom claws slowly caressed his neck, just as He had done before they began to hurt.

He sped up, ignoring the pain in his legs and the burning in his lungs. Everything around him was painted green, a green as radioactive and nauseating as it was familiar, taking the form of severed heads, of faces he no longer recognized. And… and… He was aware that his eyes had turned radioactive green. His father hated them.

He had to hide. Find a safe place to calm down, away from people who…

“Ugh!!” His body slammed against a hard, padded surface, much like Kevlar. A gloved hand grabbed his shoulder and he began to shake it off, but a voice stopped him.

“Robin, Robin. Hey, Dami, stop, it’s me, Dami. Shhh.” He pulled him tightly against his chest. “That’s it, that’s it. You’re safe. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Damian inhaled a couple of times, filling his lungs with the warm scent of his older brother. From Tim, his brain added before turning into jelly and causing his body to melt in the embrace.

Tim didn't let him fall; he held him with a tenderness he never showed the world except in those small glimpses of intimacy hidden beneath the eyes that surrounded them. Damian couldn't help but hold on tight.

He was afraid. He wanted to disappear and stay hidden in his brother's arms. To get drunk on the familiar fresh scent of lavender and sweat.

“That’s it, shhh… Everything will be alright,” he continued appeasing. Tim waited until he heard Damian's breathing sync up. "What happened, baby bat?"

“Nothing of your interest,” he forced himself to say. “Nothing worthwhile.”

"Are you sure? It's not every day you see the bravest of the Robins running like he's being chased by the entire League of Assassins... Is the League of Assassins here?"

He felt Tim's muscles tense and forced himself to break free from the warm embrace. "It's nothing, really. Can we go back home? I'm tired."

“Of course, give me a moment while I let the others know,” he said with a beautiful, crooked smile after so many years in the business, before tapping his keyboard twice. “Let’s go.”

Damian nodded with difficulty, pretending that his brain didn't still feel like jelly, as if his soul wasn't still screaming to flee Gotham.

They didn't take long to reach entrance A-13b on the motorcycles, and even less time to park them on one of the lower platforms before going up to the main one. Damian's mind had calmed somewhat thanks to the constant purr of the motorcycles, leaving him in a state of pure exhaustion. The bed was practically begging him to join in, just as Grayson had said.

He walked straight to the cave showers, ignoring Tim. His worried looks and suggestions about snacks or movies or who-knows-what didn't bother him at all. He just wanted this damned day to be over.

He reluctantly took off his suit, tugging at it without a care for tearing it, and stepped into the shower. A cascade of hot water welcomed him with open arms, as if it knew of his torments and wanted to wash them all away. To cleanse him of sin.

He gently scrubbed his rough, scarred skin with natural cinnamon and citrus soap he'd made over the summer while he'd been sidelined with a sprained ankle. It had been a mildly enjoyable activity, especially after Jason came in and helped with the molds and such. Damian turned off the tap and quickly dried himself with a hot towel before reappearing at the lockers. Timothy was already changed and waiting for him on one of the benches.

Damian blatantly ignored him, and Tim simply observed as he kept his movements silent, like an eagle watching its prey. He suppressed a shiver as he pulled on thick trousers and a sweater he had blatantly stolen from his brother, a fact he absolutely refused to admit.

“Do you want us to sleep together?” Tim said then, shattering the silence. Damian jumped like a spring while frowning.

“WHAT? ARE YOU SAYING? YOU DAMN PERVERT!”

“WHAT? NO, NO, NO, NOT LIKE THAT OH MY GOD NO! UGH!” He shouted back with a chill “I WOULD NEVER- UGGHHHH NO! I READ SIBLINGS SLEEP AT THE SAME BED WHEN ONE IS SAD OR UPSET.”

“Oh” was the most intelligent thing Damian could have ever said. “And… why would we do something like that?”

"Well, I thought you'd want some company and all... I don't know, I thought we were getting closer... I... pretend you didn't hear anything. It's stupid."

“It is. Goodnight, Drake,” Damian said as he ran up the stairs. He wasn’t a child. Absolutely not. What was he thinking? Of course he didn’t want to fall asleep in his brother’s arms, protected from the world… How stupid.

____________________________________________________

He didn't speak to Drake again for the rest of the weekend. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid him as subtly as possible, with a skill that would make even the most veteran members of the League of Assassins green with envy. It wasn't because he was ashamed of having left him alone that night in the cave, no, nor was it out of remorse for having hurt his feelings after having helped him so much. No.

He was simply a sinner.

He sighed when his alarm buzzed low. He hadn't slept at all that day either; the murmur of demons...they whispered too high on his head. He threw off the blankets and got up listlessly.

He didn't want to go to school. He didn't want to share a car with Timothy.

He dressed in his freshly ironed uniform and went downstairs, avoiding looking at the door opposite his, which was already ajar. The kitchen was empty; only two plates and a small note in Penworth's neat handwriting remained.

Dear Masters Timothy and Damian, 

I'm really sorry, but for exceptional reasons I won't be able to ride you two to Gotham Academy. Therefore, I expect you'll both be responsible young people and go to school in the Rolls-Royce Droptail and not  jump out of class. I'm leaving the car keys with this note. I expect that upon my return the car is still immaculate, or there will be consequences.

Alfred Pennyworth

Post data, 

I'm afraid things have happened so abruptly that I haven't been able to prepare lunch on time. I trust that the pasta cacio e pepe would be enough for you two.

Damian quickly realized that the keys were gone and that Timothy's breakfast was still untouched on the counter. It didn't take a genius to figure out what that meant.

Today he'd have to take public transport. Great. Wonderful.

Although he was glad he avoided that awkward moment —of that he had no doubt— and could even have a double portion of breakfast, he felt the porridge was bland. Not bland from lack of salt or spices, it was more like it was made of sand. He left his plate half-eaten, went to his room to get his backpack, and hurried back down to the kitchen. Should he had to catch the bus, he'd be cutting it close to the time.

He went inside until he reached the large refrigerator that covered almost the entire wall and opened its doors, finding himself greeted by dozens of drawers overflowing with fresh produce, dairy products, cold cuts, and various meats. On the top shelves were —or rather were usually, since it was empty— the leftovers from the previous day.

That bastard Timothy had not only taken the car, but all the food too!

He took a couple of deep breaths to hold back tears, grabbed a Tupperware container of miso soup, and shoved it into his backpack without thinking before running out of the house. With any luck, he'd make it to the bus of the seven thirty.

He missed the seven thirty bus.

He stepped onto the nearest Gotham Academy bus stop halfway through the second hour, and entered the building at the beginning of the third.

Damian gripped the straps of his backpack tightly as he walked through the now deserted hallways. He could hear the muffled voices of the teachers through the old doors. He tried to ignore the knot in his stomach when he saw the door to his classroom. If he had known all this was going to happen, he would have stayed in bed. With any luck, he might even have gotten some sleep.

How he hated school.

He knocked twice and took a step back. Whatever happened, it was too late to back down. He was a Wayne, an al Ghul; he never ran away. The door opened almost immediately, and his professor's scowl was the first thing he saw.

“You’re late, Mr. Wayne.”

“I know,” he said with the arrogance one would expect from him. He wasn’t using it as a shield, no. “But I’m here now. Move aside so I can pass.”

The math teacher's face darkened even more.

“You’re late, you don’t give any reason why, you don’t even apologize, and you still demand to be let in? You’ve really taken this…” His gaze seemed to pierce his entire face, but Damian wasn’t intimidated and held it. Apparently, the professor saw the weariness on his face that he had tried so hard to lock away —he was, after all, one of the strictest and most beloved professors— because his expression softened and his tone became gentler. “Alright, Damian. Come in, but on the condition that we eat together today, okay?”

Damian nodded dismissively and sat down in his seat as Mr. White resumed the class. True, the math teacher was named Mr. White, like that victim of the cold case he solved with Drake the night before their fight.

White, white, white, white as his mind right now.

The third period passed in the blink of an eye. Damian hadn't noticed a thing. He was too focused on not crying or falling asleep at his desk, and only realized that class was over because all his classmates had gotten up and were leaving the classroom, whispering to each other and glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes.

Mr. White said nothing, he simply waited for him to pick up his things from the desk rack.

“Do you want to eat here or would you prefer to go to the cafeteria?” he asked kindly.

“Here.” If they went to the dining room where everyone else was, he would have to face all the stares that usually followed him, his brother’s cold anger, and the subsequent taunts for being seen eating with a teacher that pitied him.

“Okay. What do you have for lunch? I’ve heard Mr. Pennyworth is a great cook.” Damian shrugged while turning around toward his backpack. For me, today, I have a Caesar salad. My wife says I need to start eating better, meaning stop eating the catered food, hahaha… Damian?”

Damian stood still, staring at his backpack, his shoulders tense. Hearing his name called, he took the backpack from his sling, tracing a wide circle as he brought it toward him. His hands trembled. His eyes were brimming with tears.

Mr. White looked at the backpack, and soon understood why. More than half of the fabric was soaked and dripping slowly onto the floor.

“Someone has opened the jar,” Damian whispered, his eyes still fixed on the backpack.

“Are you sure?” the teacher found himself saying before he could even close his mouth. He knew accidents like this could happen, that sometimes children were mean to each other for no reason, that Damian wouldn't lie about something like this. But his first reaction had been to doubt, and for Damian's weary mind, that was the last straw.

He dropped his backpack before running off, so fast that Mr. White didn't have time to react. When he reached the hallway, there was no sign of him. First, he quickly searched the entire building calling out for him, looking in all the bathrooms and even the maintenance shed hidden in the trees. He only found the usual troublemakers smoking. Not a single trace of Damian, so he decided to go with plan B: asking for help from the person closest to the boy in the entire school, his brother.

With quick steps he went down the stairs from the second floor and opened the double doors of the dining room, not caring about the curious looks of the students, which intensified when he arrived at Timothy Drake's table.

“Timothy,” he called, “I’m sorry to bother you during your lunch break and time with your friends, but I need your help.”

Tim lifted his head from his burger and raised his eyebrows, a gesture that Mr. White took as encouraging.

“It’s about your brother.”

“Which one?” he said without stopping eating.

“Little Damian.”

"Didn't he come to class or what? He should have left the bus on time."

“Didn’t you come together? Well, that doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. “No, he did come. We were going to have lunch together because he seemed really down today, but someone spilled his soup on his backpack and ran off. I can’t find him.”

Tim frowned. “Damian ran away?” he said, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Damian?”

“Yes, please help me find him. I’m getting worried.”

Tim took one last bite of the burger before wrapping it in its paper and putting it in his pocket next to another. Ever since that night on patrol, he'd been blatantly ignoring him, as if he wanted nothing to do with him. It hurt, yes, but if he wanted space, Tim was willing to give it to him. That's why he'd left earlier, so as not to bother him too much. Had he done wrong? What was done was done, but she could still do damage control or at least get him to eat something. She stood up and stared at the teacher.

“Don’t worry, Mr. White. When Damian doesn’t want to be found, not even the best tracker could find him. Leave it to me.”

The math teacher nodded weakly and watched, along with the rest of the dining room, which had become as silent as a tomb, as he disappeared down the hall.

____________________________________________________

Damian pressed his knees harder against his chest. It was a disgrace. He shouldn't cry. It wasn't befitting someone of his stature. And certainly not over a simple bowl of soup or wet books. He had enough money to buy the entire Gotham Academy if he wanted.

Men don't cry. Al-Ghul didn't cry. Robin didn't cry.

But Damian… Damian feels, Damian cries, Damian could do whatever he wanted. Because hidden beneath all those old paintings in the half-abandoned wing of the building, he could afford to be nobody. Just a child. Without expectations. Without a name.

He wept even more furiously for what seemed like an eternity, hyping and his uniform was soaked with tears and snot. He knew that when he had to leave his hiding place, he would regret ruining his blaze, but that wasn't important at the moment. That would be future Damian's problem.

It was between a stifled cry and a small coughing fit that his refuge was discovered. The paintings and the canvas surrounding it were delicately removed, and as much as Damian wanted to complain or fight, the trembling that shook even his soul wouldn't let him. He could only watch pathetically as they stripped him of the safety of darkness.

He expected to see the teacher, the headmaster, even Father with a resigned expression and a reproachful look, but instead he found the warmth of firm arms. He knew who they were without needing to see his face, and he didn't hesitate to throw himself into them, rubbing his face against his brother's shoulder and digging his fingers into his sides.

Timothy smelled of lavender. He smelled of cold. He smelled of home.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered between spasms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Hey, Dami, shhh,” she heard him say as he stroked her hair. “Everything’s alright. I’m here. There’s nothing to fear.”

They remained in that position for several minutes; Damian crying silently and Timothy stroking his hair. The same scene as the other night on the rooftop. Little by little, he moved away from his shoulder and, for the first time in days, looked his brother in the face.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered again.

“It’s not your fault. I should have taken you instead of taking all the food. It’s my fault too,” he said soothingly as he wiped the tears from her face. “Are you hungry? I brought a hamburger.”

“Is it vegan?” Tim’s expression froze for a few seconds.

“Oops. Maybe… maybe I forgot that tiny little detail…” That sentence, contrary to everything else, brought a smile to Damian’s face. “If you want, we can go to the dining room. I highly doubt my friends ate Alfred's cacio e pepe after this."

“But I look unworthy,” Damian retorted, looking at the ruined blazer.

“Put on mine, and if anyone says anything to you, I’ll take care of them, okay?”

Damian nodded and let his brother pull his hand into the larger blazer, and then, holding hands, they returned to the dining hall. They didn't speak the entire way. There was no need. Even if the stares of the other students fell upon Damian like daggers, he didn't feel them. His brother was protecting him. He was taking care of him, just like Mother had done when he was three years old.

He felt safe.

They reached the central table, and Tim's friends quickly made room for him. Thankfully, they didn't try to talk to him, and the only thing they did as an apology or a silent welcome was to start piling up mounds of food right in front of him. Damian simply looked at Tim, waiting for him to lead the way.

I didn't know how to behave in situations like that.

Tim simply gave him a fond smile and gave him the tupper with the pasta.

____________________________________________________

The rest of the day passed in a blur. As soon as the bell rang for class, Timothy led him to the parking lot instead of his classroom. When he tried to ask about their backpacks, Timothy just made a casual gesture with his hand, saying his friends would give them to him tomorrow. With that, they headed home and spent the rest of the day watching movies.

When night fell and no adults had arrived yet, they decided to order falafels from a new restaurant that had opened near Bristol. Damian knew Tim wasn't a big fan, but before he could even suggest anything else, Timothy had already dialed the number and was politely speaking to the waitress to place the order. They ate it lying on the sofa like two uncouth commoners, but Damian didn't care.

He was with his brother. That was all that mattered.

“It’s almost midnight, Dami, I think it’s a good time to go to sleep,” Tim said, stretching and holding out his hand. “Shall we?”

Damian simply agreed, and together they went upstairs to the family wing. They stopped in front of their rooms.

“Good night, Dami,” Tim said before slipping into his room.

Damian stared at that door for a few moments before going through his own. Tim might not hate him anymore, but he still had one more thing to make up for. Something he'd wanted to do ever since they offered it to him.

He walked to his bed, put on his pajamas, grabbed his pillow, and headed purposefully to his older brother's room. He didn't hesitate to knock three times. The door opened, revealing Timothy in an old Superboy T-shirt and pajama pants that he knew from Dick's complaints weren't Tim's.

“Is something wrong?” Damian opened his mouth, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. No matter how hard he tried, his brain seemed to have forgotten how to speak English. “Dami?”

“I… um… I was thinking we could… uhh… sleep together?”

Timothy's eyes lit up for a few seconds. He gave her a bright smile and opened the door wider.

“Of course, come in.”

Chapter Text

The sky had darkened and ash floated around him like a cursed layer, reminding him that the mission was proving to be a complete failure. He breathed shakily before standing up again and frowned at the sky. He didn't take his hand away from his side.

Three days ago, an alien spacecraft made contact with the Justice League under the guise of friendly trade. Batman initially didn't believe them, nor did Wonder Woman and Green Lantern, but apparently, their proximity to Superman and a quick round with the Lasso of Truth cleared them of suspicion. How naive.

No sooner had they touched down than hundreds of troops, hidden behind travel doors concealed within the ships, advanced rapidly across the area. In the first hour not even civilians preserved their heads. Neither the elderly, nor children, nor the lil animals. The streets were soon stained red just before the League and the various teams of heroes appeared. Titans, Outlaws, Birds of Prey, Suicide Squad… even on the second day of the invasion, a truce had been made with the Evil Syndicate to help in the war.

No.

Carnage.

That morning of the third day, most of the population had been killed, many heroes had fallen in combat, and the fronts, even with the help of NATO and BRIC armies, were overflowing everywhere. The Earth had become a giant graveyard. And Damian wanted to help, needed to help, to fight alongside his older brothers and emerge victorious or die bravely with them.

They all seemed to have different opinions. Batman, too. They all wanted him to stay safe in the cave. But what good would that do? He felt insulted by such slander, as if he weren't needed to stop those crazy maniacs. So he did the most reasonable thing in the universe. He escaped.

It didn't take him long to destroy a convoy traveling through the streets of Gotham, and he even rescued his mother from hostages who were being held captive. Why? He didn't care. His mother was with him. They were both safe.

Shortly after, they came upon the corpse of their grandfather, the great Ra's al-Ghul, reduced to a mere sack of rotting flesh with maggots crawling from his eyes. The creatures greeted him, and he returned the greeting.

They continued walking in search of his brothers, his father, but they couldn't find them in Gotham, so they went to Metropolis. How did they get there? Irrelevant. There he found Superman, but he was crying. Jon was crying beside him too. Damian tried to ask why. What had happened to reduce one of the greatest men on Earth, the symbol of hope, to the state of a beaten puppy. He opened his mouth to speak, and they pointed to a nearby building.

Five bodies hung lifeless, tied with a red rope. Five bodies dressed in suits that Damian could recognize with his eyes closed. Five people who had taught him how to live, how to smile, how to see the good in things. Five people he called family.

Father, Richard, Todd, Cain and Timothy.

Then he felt a shot in his side, or was it his heart? Did he even have a heart? There was no benevolence in the pain, nor in the ash around him.

His family was burning. He breathed shakily before standing up again and frowned at the sky. He didn't take his hand away from his side. When had he fallen? It didn't matter.

She couldn't stop watching the fire. The flames were devouring his loved ones, his family. No, no, no, he had to do something to stop them… no… no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO.

“NO!” he screamed. His lungs burned with the effort. Where was he? Where were his brothers? Why was his head spinning? He was afraid, terrified. Where was everyone? Mother? Father? Someone, help!

He grasped the nearest thing, something soft and squeezable between his fingers, and squeezed until his knuckles turned white and his fists trembled like the legs of a newborn fawn. He vaguely felt a weight on his legs and something wet on his cheek, but he was still too deep in that dream.

“D… ami… ian… Diamia… Damian!” a voice said beside him after what seemed like ages. His breathing was still heavy, but at least he managed to make out his own name amidst his panic. He turned toward the blurred face beside him. “Everything is… just conc… breathing. Damian, please look at… safe here.” The stream of comfort continued, but Damian felt it was distant, too distant to be real.

He wanted to answer him, he really did, but his brain felt like boat grease, oil stuck to the reef, and his voice… He could barely manage a couple of grunts to the person next to him before losing consciousness again.

____________________________________________________

It was two in the morning on a weekday. Tim was supposed to have been asleep for a couple of hours. Not for his health, no, a nap after class would fix everything, it was for the mental health of Alfred, Bruce, and the teachers. Apparently, when he wasn't asleep, he was like a deranged raccoon. Although, in his opinion and of the rest of Young Justice, that wasn't true. It wasn't that they were all over the top, no.

He let out a small laugh as he finished disinfecting the needles.

A couple of days ago, Kon had called him to headquarters without any explanation, only with a promise that he would like it, and who was Tim to refuse? When he arrived, only Superboy was in the living space with a kryptonite needle and a smile that was too bright.

“Hey, Rob!” He waved. “Thanks for coming.”

“Where did you get this?” he said, holding the needle. “I  will not draw blood from you if that's what you want."

"Nah. Turns out that bothering Luthor about the custody thing and his baldness has its advantages. Anyway, will you give me some piercings?"

Tim raised his eyebrows. “Do you want piercings?”

“Yeah, like the ones you have in your ears, and I’ll also want one in my eyebrow and another one in my lip, they are really cool, and I was thinking of doing one on my tongue too, but I don’t think the needle is long enough for that one, and… have you ever seen snake bites? I’d like to get them, but they’d look better on you, you know? And we can’t both have the same piercings, they wouldn’t be able to tell us apart, so I think one of those little rings in my lip will be enough and…”

“Yes, yes, yes, I get it, Kon, don’t go all Bart.” Tim interrupted, picking up the instruments. “Sit down so we can get started.”

With a small smile at the memory, he double-checked that the markings were done correctly before piercing. He'd been wanting more piercings for a while, but hadn't known which ones. Kon had given him the solution. And she wasn't going to waste this opportunity.

He did both sides really fast and he quickly turned to the sides and looked at himself in the mirror with a proud smile. Kon was right, they looked just for him. He stretched in the chair, still gazing at his reflection, completely satisfied and wanting to hide in bed until morning, but a scream shattered the tranquility of the night.

Tim jumped up from his chair and listened intently. Were they under attack? Shit, of all days when Bruce and Alfred were gone. Would he have time to get down to the cave? He had to get Damian with him first before he found the intruder and made a mess he didn't want to clean up and…

Another scream tore through the tense silence.

Damian.

Damian was screaming.

His body moved before his mind could process what was happening. He left his room, bo staff in hand, and stormed into his younger brother's room without preamble, ready to kill any intruder.

The only thing out of place was Titus, whimpering in bed and trying to press on a tiny, trembling lump. There was no doubt it was Damian, but what had happened?

He quickly approached the bed and sat beside him, but without touching him. He didn't know how he would react. He took in their surroundings: the bed, completely soaked and with a faint smell that hinted at something else; the Great Dane's ears flattened against his head and pulled back; and Damian himself. His face was pale, almost as white as his own skin; his hair was matted and drenched with sweat; his eyes… Oh, his eyes seemed to have witnessed the greatest tragedy. They were completely unfocused, fixed on his tightly clenched fists. Damian rocked back and forth, whispering over and over no.

Tim, without realizing it, almost began to mimic his movements. Forward, back, forward, back—a rhythm that was gradually calming him. When his heart recovered from the shock, he gently lifted Damian into his arms without hindering Titus's work. He couldn't help himself enarch the eyebrows.

Damian was burning up.

Not from the heat of being slumped under blankets or from having the heating too high, no, it seemed as if it had swallowed magma from the very center of the earth.

“Damian,” he began gently, “Damian, Damian, everything is fine. Just concentrate on breathing. That is. Good. Hey, Damian, baby bat, please look at me, look at Titus. You’re at home, no one can hurt you here. You are safe here. Can you please follow my… Oh”

Tim felt the body he was holding go limp and sighed. He had fallen asleep again. He touched Titus's back twice,indicating him to move aside. He might be strong, but he was too tired to carry a dog too. He got out of bed with Damian and leaned him against his hip, letting out a smile that made his piercings stung as he felt his little brother come closer and hide his face in the crook of his neck.

Under other circumstances, he wouldn't have hesitated to give him a little kiss on the head, just like Dick used to do when Tim first started as Robin, or Bruce when he thought Tim was asleep. But he had too many things to do and too little time for them all.

He went out into the hallway and straight to the room at the end of it, Bruce's room, where the largest bed in the entire mansion was. He tucked him in carefully and went back out. His protocol for nighttime illnesses was simple and effective, developed and refined since his parents began leaving him alone for longer periods of time at the tender age of ten. Not that they took great care of him when they were home; that was the job of the various au pair they came through.

He went back into Damian's room and methodically pulled the sheets off the bed, crumpling them into a ball on the floor. One nearly fell on Titus, making him bark at Tim in surprise. He gathered them up and went downstairs before heading into the utility room, where all the washing machines and dryers were located. He put them inside and turned them on before going to the kitchen. He needed to get some water and soft, easily digestible food. He also took some ibuprofen and paracetamol from the medicine cabinet. Just in case.

He went back upstairs with everything he needed and made one last stop in his room to get his laptop, charger, and a Monster Energy drink from his secret hiding place that Alfred turned a blind eye to, before returning to the room where Damian was and lying down at the other end.

The atmosphere was calm and warm, filled with the scent of old wood, expensive perfume, and Bruce's unmistakable aroma. Tim gazed at Damian's relaxed body, feeling the heaviness on his own. For the moment, everything was alright; they were both safe. He could go to sleep without fear.

____________________________________________________

The first thing Damian noticed upon waking wasn't that the sheets were cotton and not silk; that was the second thing. The first thing he noticed was the unbearable burning in his throat, as if it had swollen and torn that hardly any air passed through his trachea.

He tried to move, to find some landmark that would tell him where he was, if he'd been careless enough to get captured… better if Timothy didn't find out. With a muffled groan, he tried to lie on his back, but his limbs were too heavy. Has someone replaced his blood with cement? He thought that was impossible, but he'd been healed too many times in the Lazarus Pit to know that impossible things are just highly improbable events and… Oh, he was tucked in Father's bed.

Another question popped into his mind: How had he gotten there? Why was he here if Father wasn't coming back for two days? Oh, that was two, not one. Today his brain wasn't sharp at all. Even a squashed snail would have quicker reflexes than him.

“How are you feeling?” he heard Timothy say beside him. He hadn’t noticed anyone nearby. Pathetic. He turned his head to face him. His demeanor must not have been very good, because it brought a small smile to his brother’s perpetually frosted face. “You’re sick, Damian, not that you’re now a commoner worse than a squashed snail. Last night I found you burning with fever, so high that I had to move you and change locations so I could keep a closer eye on you. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain? Would you like some water or something to eat?

Damian only had enough energy to frown and grimace, not caring at all if Timothy understood. The older man simply closed the laptop on his lap (he didn't know how long it had been there) and reached for the items on the bedside table.

“Okay, let me take your temperature,” he said, holding a device to his ear. “I know this is weird, but looking back, this is the first time you’ve been sick since you got here, right?”

He muttered uncontrollably, not caring whether Damian answered or not, while manhandling him. Another time he would bite him for such audacity, but he was so tired, his thoughts so fleeting, that it wasn't worth wasting energy on it. He simply accepted the water and ibuprofen he was given, squinting as the pill grazed his throat.

He was so sleepy… but he couldn't fall asleep; his body ached too much. So he just stared at Timothy with those inquisitive eyes he knew drove him crazy. But he did nothing to stop him. Not a single sign of annoyance. In fact, he seemed to find it amusing. Not the kind of funny you'd find in a joke, he wished, but the kind of funny you get from watching a video of a kitten trying to look threatening. That made him sniffle even more.

“Is something wrong, Dami?”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, his voice sounding like fish bones. “I’m bored. Entertain me, commoner.”

Timothy raised his eyebrows, not at all surprised by her words.

“I know you’re irritated because you can’t move your body the way you'd like, but don’t take it out on me. It’s not my fault you’re so weak.”

“I’ve never been sick in my life, and now I come to this shitty country and get sick. I think I have every right in the world.”

Tim shrugged and crawled closer until he could trap Damian in a hug. He pretended to struggle to get free, but he knew better than anyone that Timothy's hugs were few and far between, just like his real laughter. He'd been taught from a young age to fake his laughter, his smile, his mannerisms, just like Tim. But unlike Damian, Timothy had the upper hand when it came to showing affection, and even when he'd initially rejected it and Timothy had done his best to hide his sadness, he never wanted to push him away. Many nights had passed by then, and they knew each other's dance, so it didn't take long for him to melt in his hug.

“When did you get those  piercings?” he asked after a while, lifting his head from his brother’s chest and eyeing the snake bites suspiciously.

"Don't you like them?"

“Everyone ruins their life however they want,” she said, looking away and shifting his position. Without any hesitation, he finished settling on top of Timothy, turning him into a human pillow. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. “he added in a small voice, "They look good on you."

Tim hugged him tighter, making his stomach twist uncomfortably, so uncomfortably that… Ugh! He frantically tried to push Timothy away as he attempted to get out of bed, but his limbs were too weak. His stomach clenched again, feeling the walls press together, making the little water he'd drunk burn as it went down his throat.

He had just enough time to poke his head out of bed before vomiting so violently and with so little substance that his whole body, including his stomach, was left trembling worse than a fallen leaf in the middle of a torrential autumn rain.

He couldn't stifle a pathetic groan as he tried to clear the bile from his nose and mouth. His eyes burned, and it didn't take a genius to see he was crying, and to top it all off, he could barely breathe again because of the acidity of the vomit. He didn't look up from the puddle that had formed on his father's favorite rug. He felt pathetic, tiny, an inadequate tadpole who couldn't even take care of himself, or at least avoid making such a mess when he was sick. He was so stupid…

He then heard noises beside him. Tears blurring his vision, he tried to see who had witnessed his misfortune, until he remembered that Tim had been with him just a few minutes before. Had he left after seeing such a disgusting sight? It wouldn't surprise him. Who would want to be with someone like him?

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t cry anymore, Baby Bat. I haven’t gone anywhere, I’m here. Okay?” A cold hand stroked his curls. “Everything’s alright.”

“No, he isn’t,” he sobbed. “I’ve tainted father’s things, I smell like literally puke, and your senses are probably killing you for staying near me. Go away and stop pretending you care about me.

Tim sighed. “It’s true that cleaning vomit off carpets isn’t my favorite activity, but taking care of my family certainly is. And, unfortunately for you, you are and always will be my little brother. So less venom and more letting yourself be helped.”

“Then you should take that advice to heart,” Damian remarked between sobs as he approached his brother’s body. “I’m in so much pain, Timbers.”

Tim held him in his arms.

“I know baby, I know.”