Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You’re cheating."

“No I’m not,” Dick says. “We agreed that the goal was between the flower pots.”

“No, we agreed it was between the pine trees.” Tim points behind him at the two trees in question, growing just a bit past the edge of the manor’s driveway. “You’re changing the rules.” Tim kicks the soccer ball at Dick, who nabs it with his heel and kicks it up to bounce it on his knee.

“Rules don’t count unless you write ‘em down.”

“That’s bogus.”

“You’re bogus.”

They’ve been playing soccer for the past hour, taking advantage of the rarely sunny summer day. It's blistering out, so Dick is wearing a tank top and shorts while Tim is in one of his bat-approved athletic binders. Wayne Manor is isolated enough from the rest of Gotham City that he doesn’t have to worry about anyone other than the family seeing. Dick can’t help but admire Tim for how confident he is now.

He remembers when Tim first became Robin, acne-ridden and shy to the point of almost no return. It took Tim six months to finally come out to the family and admit that he wanted to be called Tim instead of his deadname and be referred to with he/him pronouns from now on. He looked ready to cry when Dick and Bruce accepted him without question, and Dick remembers hugging the kid as hard as he could, trying to push the love and support into him through osmosis.

Tim has done a lot of growing up since then. He’s even out publicly now, staying strong despite the media’s brainless gossip and speculations. Dick couldn't be prouder.

He drops the ball and kicks it as hard as he can, sending it sailing straight between Alfred’s two pots of prize-winning marigolds. Dick raises his arms in triumph. “Goal!”

“Cheater.”

“You mean winner.”

Tim crosses his arms, looking all too much like a scolding parent. “You lack honor. If Uncle Iroh could see you right now he would be so disappointed.” Wow. That actually hurts a lot for some reason.

“Rematch?” Dick asks. “I’ll play fair this time.”

“Promise?”

“...Maybe.”

“You’re a coward.”

“Fine, fine, I promise. You little twerp.” Dick peels off his sweaty tank top and throws it at Tim, who yelps and dodges.

“You’re so gross,” Tim says with a shudder, but he’s laughing. He goes to retrieve the ball where it rolls past the treeline. Just as he disappears, a black car starts to pull into the driveway. Dick breaks out into a grin.

Alfred left to pick up Damian from school almost twenty minutes ago and waiting for them to return has been torture. Maybe Roy had a point when he accused Dick of having a little brother addiction. He should look into that later. As soon as Damian climbs out of the back seat Dick is darting to intercept him.

“Hey, kiddo! How was school? Tim and I are playing soccer if you want to be on my team, which I highly recommend because I’m the best.” Damian says nothing, and that’s when Dick gets a good look at the kid’s face for the first time. “Whoa, what happened?” One of Damian’s eyes is swollen a gruesome purple and there’s a nasty cut on his lip.

Damian holds out a small slip of paper, which Dick takes. “I’m suspended.”

“What did you do?”

Damian bristles. “Why do you automatically assume it was my fault?”

“Well, was it?”

Damian’s eyes dart to the side. “Yes.”

Tim jogs back over to them with the soccer ball, barking a laugh. “Dumbass.”

Damian’s eyes flash with murderous intent. Dick steps in between the two of them, just in case. He ducks down a little to get a better look at Damian’s bruised face, tilting the kid’s chin this way and that. “How did this happen?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tim says. “Someone finally beat up the little snot.”

“Drake, you’re a sack of steaming garbage.”

Tim just shrugs. “Preaching to the choir, kid.” He takes several steps back and kicks the ball Damian’s way. It rolls to a slow stop at Damian’s feet. Damian stares down at it with a grimace. “Kick it back," Tim tells him.

Instead, Damian picks the ball up and yeets it at Tim’s head as hard as he can. Luckily, Tim ducks out of the way before it can give him a rattling concussion. Damian storms inside, muttering obscenities that would make Alfred faint.

“That’s not how you play the game!” Tim calls after him.

The front door slams shut.

Drake is an ungrateful moron. Damian doesn’t know why he even bothers.

After getting chewed out by Father and Alfred for fighting in school, all Damian wants is a couple hours of peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask for? Alfred wouldn’t stop pestering Damian about what happened as he tended to his injuries, but thankfully gave up after a while once he realized he wasn't going to get an answer anytime soon.

Now Damian is alone in his art room, holding an ice pack to his face with one hand and sketching with the other. Jon’s birthday is this weekend and Damian is planning on giving Jon a portrait of himself in his Superboy uniform. He won’t be able to display it where his normal friends can see, but that’s more or less the point.

He hears footsteps approach from the hall and sighs internally. Damian could differentiate Grayson’s footsteps from a crowd of hundreds if he ever needed to. They’re unmistakable—light and bouncy like he’s about to take to the air at any moment.

Grayson taps gently on the door. “Can I come in?”

No point in turning him away; Grayson is not the kind to give in easily. “Do whatever you want.”

Grayson enters and closes the door behind him, giving them some privacy. “I think we should talk about what happened at school.”

“Why does everyone keep asking me about that? It doesn’t matter.”

“The fact that you don’t want to talk about it makes it seem like it matters a lot.”

“So? You’re not my father. You can’t make me do anything.”

“Would you rather have this conversation with Bruce, then?”

Damian considers that. He loves his father, he does, but any kind of deep conversation with that man feels like he’s being scolded for something. It might be all the wrinkles. He's like a grumpy, goth Santa Claus.

“Look,” Grayson says, pulling up a chair and sitting backwards on it like a teacher pretending to be cool. “I know how hard you’ve been trying to behave better in school. You’re doing a great job and I’m really proud of you. But I also know that you wouldn’t jeopardize all of that progress unless it was something important.”

Damian scowls down at his drawing. Sometimes he wants to throttle Grayson for being so damn intuitive. “It was just a jerk at school. He was...saying things. I got angry.”

Grayson’s eyes immediately turn sympathetic. “You never told me you were being bullied.”

“Not me.” Damian rolls his eyes just thinking about it. “None of those simpletons would dare to cross me. It was Drake.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were...talking about him. About the way he is.”

Grayson understands right away. “Oh.”

“They called him a girl. One of them said he was faking it for attention.” Just thinking about it makes him want to go back and punch that kid even harder for the things he said. What right did any of those children have to make fun of Drake simply for being the way he is? It’s cowardly.

“So you were defending Tim?” Grayson looks surprised but proud at the realization. Like Damian did something heroic, which he definitely did not.

“I couldn’t care less about Drake’s feelings,” he spits. “I was merely teaching a lesson about respect. Nothing more.”

Then Grayson reaches over and hugs him, which makes Damian wish he hadn’t said anything in the first place. Stupid honesty. Stupid Grayson. Stupid Drake.

“I’m proud of you for defending your brother,” Grayson says, his cheek pressed against Damian’s hair.

“I was not defending him.”

“Well, whatever you did, I’m proud of you.” He pulls back. “But you can’t just pummel kids like that, even if they are mean and misguided.”

“What was I supposed to do, let them tear his reputation to shreds without consequence?”

“You could have told a teacher, or had Bruce call their parents—”

Damian clicks his tongue. “That wouldn’t have done anything. They needed to be taught a lesson, not coddled into keeping their mouths shut. I know better than anyone that Drake is the worst, but to make fun of him for something he can’t control is stupid and pathetic.”

He expects another protest from Grayson, but when he meets his eyes all he finds is a disgusting kind of happiness. “Aw,” Grayson coos, pulling Damian close again. “You do have a heart.”

“No, I don’t. I told you I don’t care about Drake.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“I don’t.”

In spite of Grayson’s claims about what Damian did being “selfless” and “justified,” he’s still grounded for a week. How’s that for justice? Heroism is a lie, and that's coming from a real-life superhero. Which is why Damian and Titus are fighting the power by lying on their backs in the kitchen doorway, feet up against the wall as they glare at the world in silent protest. Though Titus isn’t entirely understanding of the way protesting works, having fallen asleep several minutes ago.

Something drops onto Damian’s chest. He lifts his head to find an upside-down image of Drake standing over him. He picks up the long, thin package wrapped in green tissue paper. “What’s this?”

Drake stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I know what you did.”

Curse Grayson to the deepest, darkest pits of Hell. “I didn’t do anything. Shut up.”

Drake looks just as embarrassed as Damian is, but he presses on. “You defended me even though you didn’t have to. I appreciate it.”

“I didn’t do it for you. It’s important for children to learn at an early age that bigoted nonsense will not stand. You being transgender had nothing to do with it.”

“Okay, fine,” Drake says, rocking back on his heels. “You didn’t do it for me. Whatever. But will you open the present anyway?”

Damian sneers and expects him to give up, but Drake stays planted in place, waiting patiently. Finally Damian gives in, rolling his eyes. He unwraps the stupid tissue paper to reveal Drake’ stupid gift, and—oh. That’s. Not bad, actually.

“It’s a new bow,” Drake says. “For your violin. I found it in an antique shop.”

“I already have a bow.”

Drake shrugs. “Then don’t use it. Throw it in the garbage, if you want. I just...I wanted to show my appreciation. Even if it didn’t mean much to you, what you did today means a lot to me. You knew that fighting that kid would get you into trouble, but you did it anyway. And...yeah. That’s all I wanted to say.” His pale face now a bright red, Drake turns and leaves quickly the way he came.

Damian watches him go, sneer still fixed in place. He looks down at the bow. Antique is an understatement—the thing is made of faded, cracked wood with a dingy screw and dull hair. But...maybe he’ll use it once or twice if the urge strikes him.

Not for Drake’s benefit, of course. Definitely not that.