Chapter Text
Tim peers up at Klarion, who literally just popped into existence sitting on top of the batcomputer’s large screen, to gaze down at him with a grin. His legs swing merrily as he stares at Tim with a frankly alarming amount of glee. But if it weren’t enough, a raspy mewl from the side alerts Tim of the presence of Teekl.
Oh shit. This can’t be good. An idle Klarion is never good. Especially when nobody else is around.
“Klarion,” he says, because ignoring the problem never worked out before. “Why are you here?” In Gotham, in the batcave, bothering me, he wants to add, but won’t. Pissing off the witch boy is not wise. Especially because Tim is home alone for a change.
He thought catching up on old cases would be a nice relaxing time, but apparently… not so much. His life never goes the easy way.
“Why, Tim,” he exclaims as he looks around, “you finally get a quiet night at home, and you decide to work? Don’t you have better things to do?”
Tim shrugs. “I mean this is fun, in its own way? I get to help people and solve cases at the same time?”
Klarion’s nose scrunches up as he pouts. “It doesn’t sound fun at all to me. You deserve a real break!”
Tim smiles, and tries to look satisfied. Or content. Or just… happy? (Yes, happy should definitely do it.)
“I am though,” he insists, still gently. There is no telling what a pissed–off Klarion might do, especially in the batcave. The outcome might prove disastrous. “I like helping people. And in Gotham there are so many people needing help.” He tries not to wince at that phrasing because boy, do they ever. Himself included. “I became Robin, so I could help more,” he insists, pressing on. “Just like I helped to find Teekl.”
“And you did!” Klarion nods, a smile forming on his face again. Tim is… worried now. So worried. “And I never repaid you, did I?”
“Uh…” Tim pauses, primal fear raising the hairs on the back of his neck. “It’s all right, really. Or maybe I could ask you for a favour in return if I ever need help with a friend of mine?”
Klarion pretends to think for a few seconds before he shakes his head. His heels beat against the sturdy screen, and as Tim watches in slowly mounting horror, he feels the needle-sharp pinpricks of Teekl’s claws on his leg as a weight falls against him. He looks over, for just a second, and gives the cat an awkward smile before he looks back up at the witch–boy.
“No,” Klarion declares. “I think you don’t know how a break works, Tim. I think you don’t know at all. And I think you need one now, more than anything. You need to be taken care of, and given a chance to have some fun!”
Tim opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. He’s horrified to see Teekl getting larger, or no, he’s getting smaller, as everything gets larger, until finally… it stops.
He opens his mouth again to tell Klarion this is not funny, and that he wants his quiet evening back, dammit, but all that comes out is a sort of… chirp?
Oh come on, he tries to complain, but Klarion just chuckles as he stands up, floating above him with a bright grin.
“I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun!” He tells him before he pops out of there without a goodbye, and as Tim cranes his head around, Teekl slinks off, too.
Come on, don’t do that, he screeches. Klarion! Come back!
But he doesn’t. And Tim is alone in the batcave, turned into…
He looks down. He has a fuzzy, greyish brown pelt. He looks at his hands. He turns around and takes in the striped tail.
Well, shit.
He’s been turned into a raccoon.
Bruce has been in a guerilla war with the local raccoon populace, trying to ward the cave against them - while they were convinced the batcave was the bestest place to explore, probably for food. All the break-ins would have driven even the sanest of men to desperate measures. So this is… less than ideal.
Even if Tim secretly loves the clever little nuisances. Actually, he has been browsing Chirper earlier and commenting “it me” to way too many cute raccoon photos earlier tonight.
Shit.
Well, he thinks resignedly as he stretches forward to reach the keyboard, at least he has opposable thumbs. As well as he’s still logged in, so he can message Zachary Zatara to ask for help with his sudden furry situation.
He gets as far as ‘I need help with a magical situation, urgently, are you available to assist’, and gets back an automated ‘I’m on a different astral plane, busy or just ignoring you, so I will get back to you when I do’ message before he’s plucked up.
He admits he panics. His paws slap down on all the keys he can reach at random, and he manages to close the window, no, all of the windows in one fell swoop. Great, fucking great! He screeches, pissed off and indignant, hind legs ineffectively treading air, because he needs help, goddamn it!!
Why is he getting picked up anyway?! Who is picking him up?! Tim thought he was home alone! Who else is in here, and will they just throw him out with all the other raccoons to fend for himself?! In Gotham??
“Oh,” he hears the melodious soft alto of Damian behind him. “I cannot believe it!”
Oh shit.
He’s skillfully handled, sharp claws and all as Damian takes a better look at him.
“Truly astounding! Father built his system to be completely raccoon–proof, and yet one managed to best it!” He’s pulled into a hug, and Tim tries not to squeak in surprise as he is (gently) squished to a muscled chest.
Great, he thinks. He’s gonna get added to the demon prince’s growing horde of random animals, and… Huh. Wait just a single minute! Actually, that might be fine. Soon Damian will forget about him, probably as soon as another animal comes by, and by then Zachary might be back, or at least willing to help him.
This could actually turn out fine. Tim just has to pretend to be a raccoon for a day or two. Which should be easy.
After all, what could go wrong?
“Huh,” Damian mutters, and Tim looks up to see that he is staring at Tim’s empty station. “Did Drake pull another all nighter and forgot to log himself out again?”
What.
Tim blinks up at the kid. Again?
He’s set down before he could complain, and a gentle finger taps against his nose. “Stay.”
Tim doesn’t even reach up to swat the hand away with his brand new claws, stunned as he is. Instead he watches as Damian deftly logs out and powers the batcomputer down without first poking around in his files. At all.
He doesn’t even snoop? What the hell?
Tim is blown away. But before he could comprehend the implications, Damian plucks him back up with a gentle pat on his head and a softly spoken “good boy”, and then he is tucked into the crook of his arm like… like a cat or a baby, as Damian begins to walk up and out of the cave.
“Are you hungry?” The demon prince asks. “I’m assuming you came to the cave in search of food and not because of the challenge? Not that I would blame you, of course. Father has been rather intent on keeping your family out.”
Tim blinks. Actually… Yes. He is hungry. In fact… he hasn’t eaten in… a while. Several hours maybe. He kinda zoned out and forgot all about food and the need to be fed. So yes, he could definitely eat. Especially when he’s offered superb hospitality. And it’d be rude to fight his way out of Damian’s arms now, when he is so gently held.
And Tim wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but it feels nice to be carried. Which is why it’s good that he’s actually unable to voice his pleasure at being treated nicely for a change.
“Stay,” Damian orders him again as he sets him down on the kitchen island, and Tim decides to humour him yet again as the teen goes to look for food. Tim doesn’t care all that much though. He knows exactly where Dick hides his sugary cereal and he goes for the box while Damian is rooting around in the fridge.
The box is almost completely full, which is a relief. Tim sticks one hand inside and starts scooping out delicious cereal that crunches under his sharp teeth. Oh this is good. So delicious! Tim can’t believe that Dick has been hogging all this nommy food all to himself!
“Timothy, no!” Damian yelps as he’s suddenly there, yanking the box out of Tim’s tiny hands. “Bad raccoon! I cannot condone you eating such garbage! It’s one thing that Richard deigns to consume this and I cannot protest, but you shall have a better diet! No pet of mine will have health defects from insufficient food!”
Up yours, Tim screeches in raccoon, and then he stops. Wait what?!
“None of that, Timothy,” his nose is tapped yet again, and Tim stops on instinct. Or maybe he’s just stunned. Does… Does Damian know? Is this a trick?
Did Tim give himself away somehow? (Did his empty station with Tim–as–a–raccoon typing at it tip Damian off? Or was he there while Tim got changed into a raccoon? Was he just… is this all a joke to him??)
Tim watches in dread and vaguely simmering anger as Damian smiles down at him in surprised delight, and pats Tim on the head with a big, warm, gentle hand. “Oh, you’re already listening to your name! How delightful! I knew raccoons were intelligent, but this is truly astounding!”
What?
Tim squints up at Damian, trying to find any deception in his voice, his face, his glittering green eyes, but the teen just laughs at him.
“Truly, you look so much like Drake. Even this expression of yours, and the dark circles under your eyes! Surely, you could be twins!”
So… That’s a no on the knowing about Tim. But yes on the what the fuck, Damian? Why would he name a pet after Tim? Why?? Tim wants to facepalm, but he’s scared he’d cut himself on his own claws, so he stares up at the gremlin instead, and waits for the promised food.
“All right, Timothy,” Damian says eventually, “be a good boy. Stay. I’ll bring you a bowl of water and your food, but I want you to keep the mess down. Father cannot know I have found you, or he will take you away from me.”
Ha, fat chance, he wants to say. Because no matter what Damian thinks, Tim doubts that very much. Any pet Damian has ever wanted was given to him on a silver platter.
The demon princeling has been allowed to desecrate the mansion, the ancestral manor of the Waynes, with as many cats, dogs and even a frikkin cow(!!) as he pleased. There was only ever a small hiccough when Bruce lost his cool and demanded Damian take care of all of his own pets when he stepped in dog poo, but when the gremlin stepped up and did just that, fed all of his pets and cleaned their cages (except for Batcow, who got moved to Kansas, much to all of their relief), all was good again.
Hell, Tim can’t even remember how many animals now roam the Wayne grounds, well–fed and properly looked after, like little furry princes and princesses. They even have a vet on retainer, who is more than willing (and is in fact paid very well) to drop everything to check out any of them when Damian calls. Sure, Bruce was doubtful at first, but when the vet checked all the bats out after the rabies scare, he has been nothing but supportive.
Even if none of them have even a vague idea of how many pets Damian has amassed currently.
He’s still trying to make a list when a bowl of water and a bowl of food is placed in front of him. He looks up at Damian, who smiles down at him encouragingly, and Tim sighs. Fine. He’s not fond of veggies, but the eggs and the hot dogs look promising. He grabs a hot dog, and instinctively dunks it into the water. And promptly pauses.
It’s… Well, it’s a surprise how instinct has already taken over, but it feels right. It feels good, like he has to do it before he takes a bite out of it.
But then he does take that bite. And it’s good. He didn’t realise hot dogs tasted this good. Did Alfred change the brand they usually bought? So weird!
He chews noisily as he contemplates it.
He smacks his lips and chews on hot dog after hot dog while the gremlin watches him, grinning like a lunatic, until only the veggies and fruit remain. He pokes into the bowl to dig out the apples and the grapes, and makes a happy little sound as he finds a cookie on the bottom! Score!
“Wait, no!” Damian yelps. “That was supposed to be your reward for eating the vegetables!”
Ha! Too late! Tim is already in the process of stuffing his face full of cookie, and he cackles in the hapless demon prince’s face. You snooze, you lose! Or more like you try to keep the cookies out of Tim’s reach – you lose!
“Oh come on,” the gremlin cajoles. “You must eat your vegetables! It’s good for your… your fur!”
Tim takes a good, long look at the veggies, and pushes the bowl away with both forelegs. No thank you!
Damian’s face falls. And then he jumps up. “How about… For a cookie?”
Tim tilts his head to the side in consideration and then he holds his hands out.
“No,” Damian chuckles. “Once I see you’ve eaten them, I’ll give you one.”
Tim grumbles. He wants cookies. He’s a raccoon! He should be eating sugary garbage!
But Damian doesn’t budge.
So with great theatrics he heaves a sigh and reaches for the bowl and selects… a piece of celery. He isn’t a fan, but what can he do? He brings it to his mouth and begins to chew. While staring Damian down in utter annoyance.
The things he has to do for sugary garbage!
The celery… Well, it tastes like… green. Like leaves and plants. Sap and… tangy greenness. Tim still isn’t a fan, but he is determined to get it down so he can get his cookie. He can do it, he is sure of it! Even if it’s all so very very yucky.
He isn’t even fully finished, still chewing the last bite, but he reaches out to Damian for the promised cookie anyway.
“I said all of the veggies,” the teen insists with a knowing smile.
Oh that thrice damned…!
Tim rebels. He spits the last, half-chewed bite out, and knocks the bowl over for good measure. He delights in the sight of the scrambling demon prince as chopped up veggies roll out in a wide arc.
Damian yelps as pieces of broccoli, cauliflower and celery stalks roll off the table in quick succession. He scrambles to try and catch all of the falling food that he can reach, even as more still roll out of the bowl, and Tim cackles in glee as the cookie jar remains on the table, unprotected. He scampers over to it to serve himself some real food.
By the time Damian catches him, he’s swallowed half a dozen cookies, and has two more in his hands.
“You truly are worthy of your name, Timothy. You have outwitted me, like you have outwitted my Father. I suppose I should have expected it,” the demon prince laments as he sets the bowl of collected veggies to lock the jar away.
Yeah you should have, Tim chitters, and takes pride in having outwitted Damian yet again. And then he makes a sad little sigh, and vows to come back down to the kitchen and empty that cookie jar once Damian has gotten bored with him.
Raccoons are nocturnal anyway, he reasons. Tim can sneak off to grab some cookies while everybody else is busy patrolling. The night vision and opposable thumbs will surely aid him with that on his nightly cookie crusade!
“So,” Damian eyes him and the slightly dirty veggies, “you’re not going to eat these, am I correct? Not even if I wash them?”
Tim turns his back on the bowl, showing it his fluffy bum in a crystal clear refusal.
“Right,” Damian sighs. “I suppose I can wash them and give them to Blanche.”
Tim would nod, but he doubts Damian requires his input on whether his tiny white bunny with the chewed ear would eat the veggies. Of course it would. They all know it.
Just like they know raccoons prefer junk food. (And so does Tim, not that anybody ever asked him.)
Tim watches as Damian washes the veggies, one by one, by hand, and only has to be told to stay once, when he tries to go for Dick’s cereal again. He gives in and behaves, because he knows playing obedient will eventually pay off. The moment Damian takes his eyes off of him, that is.
Because once the veggies are clean Tim is swept up into Damian’s arms without warning and carried up… to the demon prince’s room.
Tim looks around hesitantly the moment he is set up on the soft bed. The comforter is a cheerful forest green, and the gentle late evening sunlight paints the room in a favourable light. It looks a lot more inviting than the last time Tim was in there.
It’s been… Tim doesn’t even know, to be honest. Years, he thinks, which would be crazy, but… it is true. They were arguing about something stupid Damian did, and then Damian threw a knife at him to make him “finally shut up and go away” and Tim just… Never came back.
Even after Damian mellowed out.
Huh.
He climbs down to look around the room while Damian is locking his door, and tries not to be affected by the perspective change as he attempts to snoop. Just imagine you are laying on the floor, he tells himself as he looks under the bed with renewed curiosity. Damian used to have a veritable armoury down here. He’s curious how the teen’s collection has grown.
He’s brought up short when he sees the obvious answer: it hasn’t.
Damian’s bed has a wide, empty space under it. No weapons are in sight, not even taped to the bottom of the bedsprings. Which is… odd.
He walks out to poke his head into the open closet, and then he tries to claw open the other closet, the walk–in one, but he is scooped up before he can get it pried open even an inch.
“Come, Timothy,” Damian croons as he is scratched between his ears, “there is nothing interesting in there, just clothes. I’ll get you some toys tomorrow, I promise. How about you play with some balls instead?”
Balls?
Eh, he snorts and nuzzles into the clever fingers for more scritches. Tim isn’t really into playing with balls, but he can totally be bribed with head scratches. His ears twitch as he pushes up insistently into Damian’s hand, to the demon prince’s delight. He is set down a few seconds later, but before he can complain two hands descend upon him to scritch and scratch him into a happy little puddle.
He turns onto his back as his tummy is petted and scratched, and he squeals in absolute delight as a brush is taken to his fur. While Tim still isn’t happy about having been turned into a raccoon, his predicament does have a few perks.
By the time he comes out of his blissful haze, Damian has stepped away from him, set the brush down, and is changing clothes. Tim only catches on as he pulls a big sweater down on his front. A second later he smiles at Tim and picks him up, and places him into the big pouch on the front. The pocket is surprisingly big, and smells faintly of cat.
Oh.
“I need to do my homework,” Damian explains as a hand reaches in to pet him. “I read that raccoons sleep in packs, and need to be kept warm. I hope this will be acceptable?”
Tim rolls over, waddles back and forth as Damian sits down at his desk, and tries to find a comfortable position. Then he sighs. And then he rolls over again. He balances his fluffy bum on Damian’s thighs and pulls his tail up as a buffer as he lolls to the side, and yes! Yes, he is finally comfy. Even if the pouch smells like a stinky cat.
He thinks he dozes off as Damian begins to scribble notes and whatnot, but there is always a gentle, warm hand to pet him and scritch at him that keeps him from fully going under. It makes him feel… kinda nice. Even if it keeps him from falling completely asleep.
He pops his head out once or twice when he grows bored and watches as Damian does his calculus homework, quietly checking that the teen’s solutions are correct, and then he goes back and curls up into a happy little ball with his tail hugged tight against his tummy like a soft teddy bear.
He’s actually asleep until he feels the pouch moving. He pops his head out sleepily as he is set down, encased in soft, fluffy material, and his head is petted.
“It’s all right,” Damian smiles down at him. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be back soon. I just need to feed some of my little friends, and give Titus his pills. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Right, Tim yawns, and he plonks his ass back down into the pouch. Damian is going to do his evening round of feeding and caring for his animal subjects. That’s good. It’s good that Damian is a responsible pet owner.
He’s almost asleep when he realises, now would be the perfect time to raid his room for his phone. He can send Zachary another chat message so he definitely will contact Tim once he is back from wherever he disappeared to.
Tim heaves out a mighty, disgruntled sigh, and climbs out of the perfectly fluffy, warm hoodie. Sure, the pouch still smells like cat, but it also smells like Damian, and that is… kind of nice. But Tim has work to do. He does, even if he doesn’t feel like it.
He really just wants more dozing and scritches. That was pretty nice.
But he knows if he ever wants to get turned back to human he’ll need to make sure Zachary knows what is wrong, or more like knows there is something wrong. So Tim drops down to the floor and waddles up to the closed door. That Damian has closed, like a dutiful pet owner that he already is.
Tim sighs. Right. First order of business: get through the closed door.