Work Text:
There was a monster under Tim's bed, and it was chewing on a week old piece of pepperoni pizza like its life depended on it. The monster also happened to be named, rather uncreatively, Alfred the cat, and was banned from entering Tim's room ever since one particular moldy garlic bread incident. Most of the time the door was closed and locked, because Tim did have four siblings and did share a living space with a demon child, but somehow this still seemed to happen every other week.
Damian would usually get there before the little beast’s hubris got the best of it, but Tim hasn't actually heard from him all day, or seen him outside of patrol this past week. It was strange, uncharacteristic for sure, but somehow even weirder was that Tim didn't immediately assume this meant Damian was plotting his murder.
He wasn't sure when exactly he stopped considering Damian a threat, seeing as trying to kill Tim used to be a favorite hobby of his, but when this realisation came he met it with relief rather than suspicion. Trying to keep an eye on Damian proved itself to be beyond exhausting even when they didn’t live in the same house, and it's not like Tim could afford to lose any more sleep hours. Besides, the prospect of maintaining a rivility with a child who just got introduced to the concept of morals had gotten old very quickly, and then took a sharp turn to just plain old sad. Tim wanted to believe he had a little more self respect than that, and better things to waste his time on.
So they’ve established a reluctant truce, courtesy of one Dick Grayson, and that was that. Avoiding the kid wasn’t hard. Ignoring him was just as easy. They saw each other on patrol, and at breakfast, even said please and thank you when Bruce or Dick were around. Tim didn't think they had an actual conversation in months, and he was more than fine with that.
Except the kid's cat sneaked into Tim's room again and tried to eat the half empty box of leftover pizza under his bed, and Damian hasn't come looking for it yet. The little creature hated Tim for reasons that definitely had to do with the eleven year old providing it with food, so Tim very carefully grabbed it with a blanket before it could bite his hand off and hauled it out of his room, then up the stairs.
He found Damian lying on his bed and frowning at the ceiling, looking like he had been indeed planning a murder. He had his earphones in and hood on, a book and a sketchpad balanced on top of each other over his stomach. Tim put the screeching bundle of blankets on the floor, and watched as Alfred the cat ran to hide behind the closet. Damian looked up, took out one earbud, and frowned some more.
"Did you teach your cat how to pick locks or something?" Tim asked.
"Of course not," Damian said. "Get out of my room."
"Keep your pet bastard out of mine," Tim said. Damian sat up, and lifted the book like he was about to throw it at Tim’s face. Tim raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and Damian paused before rolling his eyes and flopping back down on the bed. “You’re welcome, by the way. He was eating cheese again.”
“What do you want, Drake?”
Tim lingered by the door, not exactly sure of the answer to that question. He didn't really want to start a fight with a child after having already fought said child's cat, even if he did suspect something was up. Damian went back to staring at the ceiling, but hasn't put his earbud back in and Tim caught the muffled sound of some stringed instrument playing from his phone. Violin, maybe. Figures. His new phone case had the Nightwing symbol, and Tim noticed now that he was wearing a pair of socks Dick got him as a joke last Christmas, with tiny little Supermen printed on them. It was weird, how sometimes this kid really did look like a kid.
"Is everything okay?" Tim asked, after a second. Damian didn't respond, but his jaw set in a way that told Tim he was gritting his teeth. He took that as a no. "You're gonna hurt your jaw if you keep doing that, you know."
"Leave."
"You realise you're living in the same house as the Batman, right? He's gonna figure out something's wrong sooner or later."
"Go away."
"Have you tried talking to Dick about it?"
“I can hardly trust Richard to know what imparcial even means,” Damian said, and though his words were a stone wall his voice sounded very small, like he didn’t want Tim to hear him. Tim couldn't recall a time where Damian hasn't been all force and steam and arrogance, even when withdrawn the kid wore brutality like it was a badge of honor, but Dick's name made him soft. Damian’s eyes were still fixed far away from Tim's when he asked, "Do you think people are capable of unlearning harmful behaviours?"
The question took Tim by surprise. "Umm. Yeah?" he said. "I'd say so."
"Do you think I am capable of unlearning harmful behaviours?"
There was a long stretch of silence.
"Grayson and I talked about it once," Damian said, then, quietly. "About nature versus nurture. He seems to think that despite my upbringing, I have a good nature. That I could be a good person if I wanted to."
Damian stopped, and looked over at Tim as if waiting for him to say something in response. He held his gaze, for a second or two, but Tim didn't know what he was supposed to say. Eventually he asked, "Is he wrong?"
Damian frowned, looking away again. "Yes," he said. "My nature is my mother's. I will always be her son."
Tim sighed and finally let himself step into the room, leaving the door halfway open behind him. If he had to start a fight with this child, then that is what he was going to do. The desk by the wall was neat and organized, with expensive watercolors and fancy charcoal pencils lined up like soldiers, sketchbooks that no one but Bruce was allowed to look inside. The cat was still curled up behind the closet, staring daggers at Tim as he walked over to the bed and nudged Damian's legs until he moved them. He sat down next to him and Damian eyed him warily, like he was anticipating an attack. Tim caught his gaze, and held it. "What brought this up?"
There was a short beat of silence, thick with hesitation, before Damian sat back up and pulled out his other earbud. He put his phone away and grabbed onto the book and sketchpad like they were the only things stopping him from reaching for the knives under his pillow. “I just… I've been thinking of her lately,” he said carefully. “It’s her birthday soon.”
“You miss her.”
“I know I shouldn’t.”
"It's alright to miss your mom, Damian," Tim said. "My parents weren't always good to me either, but I miss them every day. It doesn't mean what they did was okay. And it doesn't make you the same as Talia."
Tim could tell that Damian wanted to argue even if just for the sake of winning the argument, but couldn't find anything to say. His knuckles turned white, and underneath the hood it looked like his ears turned red.
"Besides, Dick likes you so you can't be that bad."
Damian huffed, and reluctantly unclenched his fists. "That doesn't count," he said. "He likes everyone."
"But you're his favorite."
"Stop that. Grayson doesn't play favorites."
"Except with you, because you're his favorite."
"I can and will break your nose with this book."
Tim rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms. "My point is, having emotions is normal. Missing family is normal. You're not gonna become the big bad at the ripe age of eleven just because your grandfather is a dick."
"You can't possibly know that."
"I can make an educated guess."
"I know you don't actually trust me."
Tim frowned. He looked down, and caught the eye of one of the little cartoon Supermen. That wasn't necessarily untrue, even if the truth of it was complicated and ugly and full of hurt. He had a feeling that was something they both knew, but understanding what it meant was a whole different thing. He also knew, despite it all, that Damian was more Dick Grayson than he was Ra's Al Ghul. "I don't think you're evil, Damian," he chose to say.
"Don't lie to me, Drake."
"I'm not."
"Then you must be stupid," Damian bit back. He looked away, frowning at the sketchbooks on the desk and at the swords hanging on the wall above it. His Katana must've also been somewhere in the room, inside the closet or behind the bookshelves, but Tim couldn't see it just by looking around. "I still… think like them. I can't stop thinking like them."
"I thought that made you the superior Robin, or whatever." Damian redirected his glare at him, and Tim raised his hands in a show of surrender. He sighed. "Listen, we both know the League of Assassins wasn't named that because they wanted to keep it child-friendly. They're manipulators and liars, good ones. That's how cults work. And you were a kid. Still are. They taught you how to think, but if I learned anything from Bruce it's that actions are what makes a person."
"I tried to kill you. Multiple times."
"Yeah, that kinda sucked," Tim admitted. "Real dick move on your part. But you promised not to kill anymore, correct?"
"Well, Yes. But-"
"And you haven't?"
"Of course not, but-"
"Do you want to?"
"No," Damian said, exasperated. "But I still think about it. Sometimes. And when I start thinking about it I can't stop."
Suddenly, hearing that, Tim felt angry. a righteous and helpless kind of anger being Robin has already accustomed him to feeling. It was always just as heavy on his heart, the unnecessary deaths and avoidable tragedies, his father getting shot in their own home and his friends dying one after the other and his kid brother being raised as a child soldier. It was impossibly unfair, but there was nothing he could do about it. Damian was angry right back at him, with his fists clenched and face flushed red, staring at him like he was looking for a fight. Tim paused long enough to swallow his frustration, and took a deep breath.
"Not acting on these impulses is proof enough that you're not inherently dangerous. Does that make sense to you?" he kept his voice level and calm, and Damian seemed to deflate almost immediately. He shrugged. "It's obviously bothering you, but it looks to me like the only person getting hurt here is you. Does that make sense?"
"I guess."
Tim waited for a second, but Damian didn't seem to have anything else to say. Tim bit the inside of his mouth, calculating. Then he said, "You should tell Bruce."
Damian looked up at him, and whatever anger he had left in him turned into blunt stoicism. "No," he said. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"He'll be mad," he said, like it was obvious, and before Tim could disagree he added, "What if he benches me?"
"I'll back you up."
Damian paused, an unvoiced argument already dying on his lips. He definitely didn’t expect that. "You will?"
Tim smiled, almost sadly. "We are legally brothers,” he said. “Maybe it's time we act like it."
Damian shifted his glance to his knees, scowling, and his ears turned red again. Tim grimaced as well, but he thought that if he could get used to Cass and Jason, then he could probably get used to having a younger brother as well. Dick was the older brother Tim has always wanted to have, and the only adult who managed to encourage any sort of positive change into this impossible kid. The title of older sibling got passed around in their family the same way the Robin mantle did, and maybe it was now his turn to put on this oversized coat. With Bruce's history of accidentally acquiring kids, it was bound to happen eventually anyway.
"I never apologized, for trying to kill you," Damian suddenly said, then. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I mean, it's not. It wasn't. But I forgive you."
Alfred the cat finally got out from his hiding place, dissatisfied with Tim's continued presence, and jumped up on the bed to climb over Damian's lap. Damian handed the cat one of his hood strings to pull on and set the book and sketchpad to the side before they could get stomped on. It looked like the book was about birds anatomy, or something. Figures.
"You're his favorite, too, just so you know," Damian said, though he was refusing to make eye contact. "Grayson won't shut up about you. It's really annoying."
"Oh. Uh, thanks," Tim said, and while he tried not to smile he had a feeling he was failing miserably. "That's good to know."
"Whatever. Please throw away whatever cheese you have in your room, preferably before Pennyworth finds it."
"Keep the rest of your zoo out of my room and we'll see," Tim said, getting up. "Let me know when you're ready to talk to Bruce. And next time you're feeling homesick… Well, I know I'm not Dick, but I can still be here if you need anything."
"Fine. Now get out."
Tim pulled Damian's hood down over his face, and quickly took his leave before he could get punched in the ribs. Furious swearing followed Tim all the way back to his room, but all he could do was laugh.