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It’s Dick’s fault that Tim and Damian are even doing this together.
"You've never had a peanut butter cookie?" Tim asks, flipping through a baking cookbook. He’d printed out a peanut butter and chocolate chip cookie recipe and stuck it between the pages a few days back.
Damian leans on the kitchen island and scoffs.
"Of course not," he replies.
"Then it's perfect. Because I pretty much only know how to make cookies."
Damian gives Tim a mocking smile. "How impressive."
Tim sticks his tongue out at Damian. "Instead of being funny, you could go see if we have peanut butter and chocolate chips."
Tim takes out the measuring cups from one of the kitchen drawers and sets them next to the KitchenAid.
Damian returns with the flour and sugar and chocolate chips.
“We could just make normal cookies,” he says. “Or let Todd make them. I do not trust you in the kitchen.”
Tim feigns acting offended. “Alfred told us to bake something together.”
To bond, he’d said. Tim’s pretty sure that Damian doesn’t want to bond with Tim. the feeling’s mutual. But no one says no to Alfred.
“We can buy cookies from the store and pretend we made them.” Damian slams the peanut butter on the counter.
Tim raises an eyebrow at Damian. “Last year. Christmas party.”
Damian grimaces.
Dick had brought rainbow M&M cookies to the party. It was a family gathering celebrated at Wayne Manor before the annual Christmas charity gala, and Alfred allowed them to invite a few friends with them. Dick had tried to pretend he’d made the cookies himself.
Alfred had seen right through his lie and had forced Dick to help in the kitchen for the remainder of the winter holidays.
“We can bribe Jason to make them for us.”
Tim rests his elbow on top of the KitchenAid. “Do you honestly think Jason wouldn’t rat us out to Alfred for next to nothing?”
Damian scowls. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”
“I feel so appreciated,” Tim says drily.
"I'm just surprised Alfred even let you back in the kitchen after your last cooking stint." Damian grabs the printed cookie recipe from Tim's hands. "Deep-fried ketchup. You should be locked up in a mental institution."
“I’m not the one who’s never tasted peanut butter in my life,” Tim shoots back. “That’s probably a crime, you know.”
Damian doesn’t look amused. “We are vigilantes, Drake. We commit crimes every night.”
Tim hums. “Sure. Can you melt the butter in the microwave? Thirty seconds should be fine.”
Damian sighs but complies anyway, taking the small bowl from Tim’s hand.
While it’s warming up, Damian grabs the jar of peanut butter and twists the lid off. He holds his hand out expectantly. Tim stares at it for several seconds before opening the drawer with a sigh and handing him a spoon.
“The drawer is literally right there,” he says.
Damian’s expression doesn’t change. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Drake.”
He shoves a spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth and Tim simply glares at him before going back to ignoring him. He starts measuring the caster sugar and pouring it into the glass bowl.
“If you want to help you can set the oven at--”
He hears coughing and the clatter of metal against the marble and whirls around, senses on high alert. He immediately notices Damian, one of his hands clutching the counter, knuckles white, the other pressed against his chest.
He coughs and gasps, stumbling to his knees, desperately trying to suck in a breath.
His breath whistles past swollen lips and Tim almost panics. Because Damian can’t breathe. And they’re home alone until Alfred and Dick come home from the grocery store.
With shaking fingers, Tim pulls out his phone and dials the number of the only person who can help.
He rushes to get a glass of water, acutely aware of how severely underprepared he is for this. It’s ironic, really, Tim knows how to splint a broken leg or how to treat a pneumothorax without medical help but he doesn’t know how to treat an allergic reaction without proper medication.
And he’s sure Damian doesn’t have the right medication around.
“Damian?” he asks, swallowing back the panic and forcing a cool sense of calm. He’s of no use to Damian if he’s freaking out. “I’m gonna need you to sit up to clear your airways and breathe easier, ‘kay?”
Damian doesn’t reply, his face is white and his whole body is shaking. He doesn’t resist when Tim helps him lean against the back of a cabinet.
The call finally stops ringing and Tim hears a faint, “hello? Tim, is that you?”
He’s never been more relieved to hear Leslie’s voice. He puts the call on speaker and grips it tightly, the other hand wrapped around Damian’s arm. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Leslie?” he asks, and even he can hear just how wrong and scared his voice sounds. “Leslie, Damian’s having an allergic reaction, he--” Tim swallows back a sob. “He can’t breathe and I don’t-- I don’t know what to do.”
He breathes in sharply, tears carving a path down his cheek. He doesn’t know when he started crying.
“Okay. Tim, Tim I need you to listen to me okay?” Leslie says. “I need you to take a deep breath and calm down. What do you mean, he can’t breathe?”
Tim swallows thickly. Damian’s mouth is red and swollen and he’s wheezing, gasping for breath. His face is white and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his face. His skin feels too warm under Tim’s touch.
“Um. He’s-- his mouth is all swollen and I think his throat might be, too? He’s wheezing a little. It’s-- he ate peanut butter. That’s what caused the allergic reaction. He’s never had some before-- he couldn’t-- I couldn’t--”
Tim didn’t know Damian was allergic. It somehow makes it worse.
“Tim, it’s alright. Damian will be fine. He--”
And then Damian twists out of Tim’s hold and manages to turn his head just as he throws up all over the kitchen floor. Damian goes limp and would have fallen face-first into the mess of vomit if Tim didn’t reach forward to grab him just before he can. Damian is fully leaning into Tim’s chest, and he can feel just how much heat is radiating off of him.
“Oh my god, he just threw up,” Tim says in a strangled tone. “Leslie--”
“Tim,” she cuts him off sharply. “Damian is going into anaphylactic shock. You need to bring him to the nearest hospital now. The only people who can help him are doctors. I need you to hang up this call and get him there, you understand?”
Tim nods shakily. “Yes. Yeah, I-- thank you. I’m--”
He’s saved from stumbling through an awkward thank you by Leslie hanging up on him. He sets his phone down and hooks his arm behind Damian’s back.
“Let’s get you to the hospital,” Tim says, trying to remain calm.
He’s shaking nearly as much as Damian is. He hooks his other arm under Damian’s knees and pulls him into his arms and struggles to his feet.
He stumbles into the garage as quickly as he can and slams his elbow into the button to open the garage doors. He swipes the nearest car key he finds. It belongs to a red Mustang near the end of the garage. Tim settles Damian in the passenger seat, buckling him in before taking the driver’s side and starting the car.
He pulls out of the garage and out of Bristol as quickly as he can.
The nearest hospital is four minutes away, and the only thing Tim can hold on to is the fact that even if Damian’s wheezing breaths sound painful, he’s still breathing. And right now, that’s all Tim needs to know.
Damian is still alive, and Tim’s gonna make sure it stays that way.
“Two minutes, Damian,” Tim grits out, going as fast as he can and definitely ignoring several traffic laws. “Stay with me, okay? If you pass out, I’ll have to take a Sharpie and draw a mustache on your face.”
He tries to smile at Damian, but it falls quickly when he sees Damian, breathing labored and gasping, pale and sweating barely acknowledging Tim’s joke through half-lidded eyes.
The hospital comes into view and Tim skids to a stop at the entrance and pulls Damian out of the passenger seat. He leaves the engine running and the doors open, but none of that matters when Damian’s coughing and gasping in his arms.
He runs through the doors and almost knocks someone over in his hurry to reach the front desk.
“Hi,” he says, breathless. “My-- my brother’s having an allergic reaction--”
The receptionist’s eyes widen but she remains calm as she pages a doctor. Tim is too busy making sure Damian doesn’t stop breathing. The breaths rattle in his chest in a way that sounds painful and his hands are curled in fists, bunching up the fabric of Tim’s shirt, white at the knuckles.
A nurse tries to catch his attention and Tim looks up. He lets her take Damian from his arms and set him down on a medical stretcher.
“What’s his name?” she asks Tim.
“Damian,” Tim manages. “It’s-- Damian Wayne.”
The two other nurses freeze for a second at the mention of the last name before going back to checking over Damian.
The first nurse simply nods and like that, they wheel Damian away and leave Tim standing in the middle of the hospital lobby, completely shell-shocked and trying desperately to process what happened.
“You can take a seat, honey,” the receptionist tells him kindly, but Tim can hear the command in her tone. “I’ll call your father.”
Tim nods numbly and walks over to the waiting area and sits in a free chair. He buries his head in his hands and tangles his fingers in his hair.
Tim violently flinches back to reality when a large hand touches his shoulder gently.
“Whoah, it’s just me, Tim,” Bruce says.
Tim looks up at Bruce’s worried face and glances behind him to see Dick and Alfred standing behind him, looking just as worried. Dick’s hair is messy and sticking up in places as if he’s run his hands through it many times on the ride over.
“Tim, what happened?” Bruce asks, taking a seat next to Tim.
Everything comes rushing and Tim feels his eyes burning with tears. He presses his palms in his eyes until starburst patterns explode across his vision.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking pathetically halfway through. “I’m sorry, B. I should’ve-- he had an allergic reaction to peanut butter. I didn’t know.”
Bruce wraps an arm around Tim and pulls him close to him.
“I know, Tim,” he mumbles into his hair. “It’s not your fault.”
A few tears manage to slip free and Tim wipes them away and buries his face in Bruce’s chest.
“Is he okay?” he asks.
He feels Dick’s hand running through his hair. “We don’t know yet,” he replies, voice tight.
Tim exhales. He really doesn’t like hospitals.
Damian is awake when Tim walks into his hospital room. His eyes are slightly glazed over and he’s blinking at them slowly, but he’s awake.
Dick makes a beeline for Damian and grins at him. “How are you feeling, buddy?” he asks, taking one of Damian’s limp hands in his.
Damian hums wearily. “Been better,” he rasps. “Drake.”
Tim was trying to make himself small in the hopes Damian wouldn’t notice him. He winced.
“You’re looking better--” he starts awkwardly.
“Thank you,” Damian bites out. Even drugged out of his mind and looking like he’s about to nod off, Damian can still manage to sound disgruntled. “For taking me to the hospital.”
Tim can only stare at him. “Well, of course,” he says. “I wasn’t gonna just let you die.”
He waits for Damian to reply that if the roles were reversed, he’d have let Tim die-- it’s not like Tim would have believed him anyway -- but Damian doesn’t say anything.
He just sighs and closes his eyes. “I’m perfectly fine,” he says. “You can all leave, now.”
Alfred ushers all three of them out of the hospital room and while Bruce talks with the doctor about when Damian would be discharged and all of that, Alfred leads Dick and Tim back towards the lobby.
Tim rubs his temples. “All I wanted was cookies,” he complains.
Alfred raises an eyebrow at Tim. “I’m certain master Jason wouldn’t mind making some.”
Tim frowns. “No peanut butter,” he says.
“No peanut butter,” Dick agrees, throwing an arm around Tim.
It’s been an eventful day and he wants to take a nap. He happily leans into his brother’s warmth.