Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

   Wind was an amazing companion. So was rain. Most evildoers struggled to mask their steps when the ground was wet, choosing instead to stay indoors rather than risk their perilous freedom on a Bat’s keen hearing.

   Then again, Shriek had never truly been a Bat.

   He crouched on the chipped gargoyle near the end of Fifth, trying to catch his breath. Tonight was noneventful for crime, driving gales discouraging what would otherwise be sopping wet heists, purse-snatchers, and even murderers. The cold bit into the exposed skin of Shriek’s face, challenging. Go home, it said. Stop looking for something to break.

   Shriek unclasped his cape, allowing it to pool at his feet, soaked, and leaped for the next rooftop. Crime would appear. In the meantime, he ran.

************

   The night would have ended, perhaps, for a twisted ankle. SHOULD have. Shriek chanced a landing too far, too low, and skidded upon impact. His arms caught him. His legs did not.

   And then appeared the hallucination.

   Shriek whirled towards the moving shadow, heart in his throat. He could feel his blood thundering through his head from the run. He could feel himself suffocating on his own desperate breaths, but what to do besides ceasing to breathe?

   The shadow had disappeared as soon as he tried to stare. In its place, the barest breath of familiarity. The roof was empty. The air was not.

   “I know you,” Shriek whispered between gasps that sucked at his rib bones. I can hear your echo.

   No one answered.

************

   “You are injured,” Penny-One told him.

   Shriek didn’t answer. He wasn’t far enough without sleep for audio hallucinations, but he didn’t want to address the worry. He didn’t want to take care of his twisted ankle. He didn’t want to stop running.

   Penny-One did not speak again.

************

   The shadow tailed him, ever silent, and Shriek started whirling over his own shoulder at increasing intervals. He knew he was crazy, could feel the grief pressing against his throat, his spine, like an ever-growing balloon. He knew it, and yet…

   The shadow was so achingly familiar in its avoidance.

   “Wait,” he tried, turning for the eleventh time to empty rooftop.

   Silence. The shadow was gone. The feeling of flight was not.

   Shriek paced around the rooftop, triple-checking the perimeter. He looked up. He looked down. Then, choking on his own anger, he kept running.

   He ran fast enough to leave the shadow behind.

   He never did.

************

   If he did the chasing, the shadow disappeared. Permanently, or at least as permanent as the next twenty-four hours. Shriek couldn’t tell the difference between the days anymore. Everything felt like an eternity, a patrol that could have lasted for a week or simply a lone hour. Boots pounding against pavement, jumping, landing, rolling, repeat. He tried to use his hands instead of his grapple, testing his endurance. How far could he jump unassisted? How strong was his grip strength; how much weight could he catch on his fingers, the tips of his fingernails, before he fell?

   How much pain could he fight before he dropped? Who would win?

   The shadow never left, and Shriek stopped looking for it. The heaviness of eyes on his back hunched his shoulders, caved his chest inward until his height on jumps were affected by the angle of shame.

   Or perhaps he was affected by the weariness dragging at his heels. You could never truly tell, sometimes. Grief, exhaustion, and insanity all had the same slow pull. It was hard to catch yourself if you hadn’t noticed the fall.

   It was hard to remember being on solid ground at all.

************

   Shriek knew he had crossed a line when his thin patience snapped, guided his hand like a missile to his belt, and threw a batarang into the darkness behind him. It flew straight, a perfectly precise aim that would hit nothing but an intended target, and not as the target was, but where it would be.

   A thud, a splash of a step, a quiet choked cry.

   Shriek lunged for the darkness, half vindictive, half blinded by fear. His hands grasped empty air. The batarang was gone. So was the shadow.

   It did not come back.

************

   Shriek stopped at the edge of the roof, trembling from the exhaustion, from the cold. The rain had not let up, and both ankles were twisted now. The pain helped drown his thoughts. It did not help him to move faster, to outrun his grief.

   He had run out of room. This building was the last, and beyond it… highway. Star City, eventually, then Central. There was nothing to swing on, only ground to run.

   And Shriek was so tired of running.

   His mask’s display tinged red, warning him silently of imbalanced brain chemistry. It was the only alert he ever listened to, the only one that served to stop him from fighting when it went off.

   He had promised.

   “Son,” a voice murmured in his ear.

   Shriek fell to his knees, hard. His eyes pooled with reflexive tears as his heart skipped a beat, then beat too fast. It hurt.

   “It’s time,” Father’s voice told him, worry laced with increasingly fervent concern.

   “I know,” Damian whispered hoarsely, trying to breathe as the grief broke free of its psychological restraints, thundering, racing, crashing over his heart, mind, and soul.

   He crumbled into the water pooling on the roof’s corner, shuddering as his heart stopped. His suit fizzled, sending an electric charge through his chest. He gasped through it. His heart started, then stopped once more, frozen with grief, with pain. He could feel it breaking. He could feel himself fighting to stay alert, stay alive, even as his suit issued another painful jolt that he couldn’t discern over the gaping hole in his heart.

   Shriek lifted his head to the sky, to the pouring rain, and screamed.

************

   “I’ve got you,” warm breath promised against his ear.

   Damian shivered thoughtlessly, focusing on the white lenses instead of the pouring darkness above. He couldn’t see any emotion in that masked face. It… helped. Somehow.

   Father tucked him closer, cradling Damian’s body like he wasn’t almost fully grown, all muscle, no bone.

   None beyond the ones that felt too broken to breathe.

   “I’ve got you,” the voice repeated, and the mask peeled back. Damian closed his eyes as his domino was removed, then his face pressed against the warm skin of a dry neck.

   He tucked his arms close to his smoking chest, pinning them between the two bat symbols, and relaxed. The mechanism had worked before giving out. His heart was beating. Slow, effortful, but alive.

   It always happened that way, somehow.

************

   A calloused hand cupped his face, brushing his tears away before he’d even opened his eyes. He tried to turn his head away, burning with shame. (He didn’t deserve it, never had---) The other hand stopped him, trapping his cheeks between a familiar touch.

   Look at me, it ordered.

   Damian couldn’t do it.

   A kiss pressed to his forehead. “I’ve got you, chum.”

   Damian’s throat thickened when he heard the grief. It mirrored his own, but this was for someone else, someone who couldn’t benefit from the concern, couldn’t use it.

   Truthfully, neither could the dead.

   He only realized the pained moan that echoed through the room when Father didn’t keep him from doing it. The sound faded when it had no more oxygen to burn. His heart skipped a beat. The monitor nearby made a concerned beep.

   “You are allowed,” Father whispered fiercely. “to cry.”

   Damian’s entire face scrunched in an effort to stem the fresh burning behind his eyes.

   The voice leaned close, pressing once more against his ear, traveling down his spine, into his chest, and wrapping around his struggling heart. “You… are allowed… to cry.”

   The sobbing noises wouldn’t stop after that.

************

   “What do you see?” Damian whispered into the peaceful silence.

   Father brushed a hand through his hair, methodical, but loving. His fingernails trailed lightly over skin, sending pleasant tingles down Damian’s aching spine. “Hm?”

   “What do you see before it’s over?” Damian repeated hoarsely. He couldn’t feel the grief anymore. Was he past danger, or too deep to care? His chest hurt.

   Father hummed against his ear. Damian could hear the heartbeat, stronger than his own, older, wiser. It was steady. He tried breathing along, tension draining from his shoulders when the cadence synced with his own. His heart had no trouble keeping time when it felt Father’s.

   “I don’t know,” the deep voice finally answered. “It depends on the person. I’ve seen many things on death’s door. None of them made me regret staying alive.”

   Damian’s closed eyes filled with tears. He didn’t stop them this time. They didn’t feel sad, they felt… heavy. Cathartic. “I pretend… sometimes… that I can still feel him. By my heels… just behind. My blind spot. My little warning, my echo.”

   Father squeezed the back of his neck, grieved. “Son.”

   “I wish---” Damian choked on his own breath. He inhaled deeply enough that his heart stayed steady. He exhaled heavy enough that his tears fell faster. “I wish it had been me.”

   Father cupped the back of his head, gently rocking. “I don’t.”

   Damian didn’t know how much that helped. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it never would.

   Father rubbed circles into his sore back. “Breathe with me.”

   Damian mindlessly obeyed. His ribcage eased as he focused on his father’s heartbeat, and his throat opened enough that breathing became… bearable. He chanced a whisper, a poorly timed, “I am titanium.”

   “You,” Father told him, voice cracking gently in his ear. “are hurting. And that’s okay.”

   Damian pressed his face into the warmth of a broad shoulder, sighing, and gave himself permission to relax. He was still here. He was still breathing. He was still alive, weak heart continuing to beat despite the bi-monthly flood of crushing grief that he could never, hard as he tried, outrun.

   It always happened that way. Somehow.

Chapter Text

   “The crushing numbness of grief is… all-encompassing. It is inescapable; it stretches on for so many forevers that you forget what it was like to be whole.”

   Damian tapped his pen apathetically against the edge of his leather-bound sketchbook. It had only been a month, three weeks of which had been spent searching. He had called in every spare favor he possibly could--- Superman, Wonder Woman, Doctor Fate, the Teen Titans… Mother. He himself had searched tirelessly, barely stopping to eat, sleep, or bathe.

   They had found nothing, and the Justice League had called all hands on deck to prepare for the final event, the end goal--- Rescuing Bruce Wayne from his trip through time.

   Damian, meanwhile, had a public image to keep. Wayne Enterprises needed guarding against those who would scramble for a power vacuum; his father’s legacy must be fully intact for his return. There were important meetings to attend, damage control to do, and a story to feed the press.

   Tim Drake-Wayne had died.

   Damian replaced his pen in the inkwell before he could snap it in two. He wasn’t sure he believed his brother’s death, but there was no other explanation. Shriek had searched so far, so thoroughly, for even a trace. He had yet to find the body, but a public funeral was scheduled regardless; closed casket, because no one needed to know how the youngest Wayne had really died. What he’d sacrificed. Whom he had saved.

   Damian stared blankly at the two sentences he’d written on the paper before him. Some of the letters were beginning to smudge with tears. Well, no matter. He had done as Alfred advised; he had sat down to write. The amount he wrote would have little effect on the aching chasm inside his chest. Simply, he did not want to worry the aging butler any more than he already had.

   He stood up, closing the sketchbook, and removed himself from his father’s study. Soon, he told himself. Soon he would no longer be alone. Soon… he would have to break the news.

************

   It was raining the day of the funeral. It had rained a good deal as of late. Trust Gotham to fulfill every possible cliché.

   Damian dressed in his best suit, and because of the downpour, a long overcoat that hid the suit from view. The overcoat had been Bruce Wayne’s. No one else knew, of course. It was generic as far as wealthy overcoats went.

   Superman sent word that Bruce would be pulled from time today. Damian wished him godspeed as he drove himself--- and Alfred--- to the funeral. The little bit of his heart that wasn’t weighed down with grief ached to be by his father’s side, to greet him, to examine him, to be sure he was alright, but… If this worked, if Tim was correct (Tim was always correct), Bruce would be home to share many tomorrows. This funeral would not be.

   As empty as the gestures were, these meaningless rituals for the dead, Damian owed his brother this one last thing.

   He did not remember whom he greeted. The crowd was a large one; most of them strangers that were summoned only by the rich name, the legend of a fortune, not their own empathy. Some Damian recognized. Most he did not. Faces flitted past in his mind’s eye, bypassing his every observational skill just to fade into nothingness. He was not here for them.

   He did not remember what he said. He had agonized over the words he was to utter into the microphone, writing them out over and over and over again until he could recite them in his sleep, which was useful now, he supposed--- He was not asleep, but he was not awake. Being alive cost his mind too much pain, and his body a dangerous level of grief. His chest had hurt for days. (Doctor Thompkins had ordered him to take it easy. Ha.)

   He had a reputation to keep for his father’s sake. He spoke the words and shook the hands and stood still by the side of the grave, watching silently as the empty casket was lowered slowly downward. He didn’t answer the pats on the shoulder or the gentle words of sympathy as people, one by one, turned to leave. If he opened his mouth, he would start to cry, so he didn’t. The rain grew harder, and still he waited as the remaining stragglers hurried to their cars.

   “Go,” he finally croaked, glancing pleadingly at the butler holding an umbrella over their heads. “Please.”

   Alfred jerked a nod, placing a gloved hand on Damian’s shoulder. Then, taking the umbrella with him, he retreated to the nearby pavilion.

   Damian waited as the muddy hole was filled, the ropes taken away, and the graveyard truly abandoned. His heart pulled him downwards, every beat feeling like a sluggish drum. His knees hit the ground, sending a splash of dead grass onto the headstone in front of him. “Tim Drake-Wayne – Beloved Brother, Cherished Son, Light of My Life”.

   The last few words were in Arabic. No one here had been able to read them. Damian had not wanted them to.

   He reached out with trembling fingers, brushing the dead grass away. Then he flattened his palm, pressing chilly skin to cold stone, and finally let his anguished tears mix with the rain. The grief pressed against his apathy until all he could feel was pain; a constant pulsing wave of failure. It dragged at his every muscle, pushing against his ribs until all he could do was throw his head to the sky and scream.

   His heart squeezed in his chest, skipping a beat. Damian finally fell silent, unable to breathe. Each pulse sent agonizing physical pain through his chest, and he scrabbled at his coat. He had to---

   Strong arms pulled him up, back, and away. Damian turned blurry vision on the last person he’d expected to see, the only one he wanted by his side, and lost all strength.

   Father caught him in waiting arms, holding him up. Damian buried his face in a matching overcoat dusted with raindrops, muffling his terrified sobs. One strong hand pressed against his back; the other cupped his head, helping him to hide.

   “Son,” Father murmured in Arabic. His breath hitched. He was crying, too.

   “I’m sorry,” Damian moaned between sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

   Father quickly hushed him, gently rocking as he held them both in an unshakable embrace. He didn’t let go. He didn’t push away.

   Damian’s heartbeat calmed, slowed, and he drew a deep shuddering breath.

   They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t have to.

Chapter Text

   “He’s not coming back.”

   Damian blinked away from the window. His eyes burned.

   His younger self stood in the shadows across the living room with blood dripping from his too-large sword, staring back.

   Damian shifted his gaze to the street outside. He’d watched it for hours now. Or was it minutes? Five? Ten? “He used to time himself from the drive to the front door after school.”

   “I taught him that. It was good practice.”

   “It was fun.”

   “If you say so.”

   A wan smile tugged at Damian’s face. “You’ll learn to have fun someday, too.”

   “What good does that do? Look at you.”

   “Tt. What good indeed.”

   “You are hurting.”

   Damian rubbed a hand over his chest, absent. “It never stops.”

   “That’s not what you tell Father.”

   “Father doesn’t need to know.”

   “… I don’t need to know what?”

   Damian closed his eyes, cursing himself in the privacy of his own head before turning on the window seat. “How long have you been standing there?”

   Father glanced around the room, leaning casually on the door-frame. “A few seconds, perhaps. Who are you talking to?”

   Damian shrugged as he stood up. “Myself.” (It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t… the whole truth. He knew he was crazy. He didn’t want to be benched from patrol on top of it.)

   Father’s eyes reflected deep sorrow, but his body language stayed calm. Steady. “Damian.”

   A flare of irritation broke the melancholy, and Damian shouldered forcefully past, stalking out of the study. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

   “Chum, let me---”

   “I’m fine, thank you.”

   Father fell silent, and the slam of the front door behind Damian filled his ears with ringing.

   “You shouldn’t have done that,” his past scolded.

   Damian ignored the hallucination. Sometimes he could manage full conversations with them, but it took a lot of focus for them to make that much sense. Right now he just wanted to be left alone. Even in his own head.

   Life, of course, was not always so gracious.

   Damian shoved his hands into his pockets, heaving a sigh, and walked faster down the drive. He couldn’t bring himself to run. He hadn’t run on the grounds in… a long time. His breath made ghostly shapes of fog ahead of him, there and gone.

   “You shouldn’t have done that,” the child repeated, kicking his legs from a nearby tree branch now.

   Damian shrugged one shoulder, keeping his eyes on the ground as he passed. “I don’t care.”

   “Father is all we have,” the child argued. The footsteps pattering after him seemed so palpable that Damian almost turned around to be sure they weren’t real. (He didn’t. He’d learned to stop.)

   The footsteps stopped when he did. “… He’s not coming back.”

   “Yes, I know. You’ve told me.” Damian took a deep lungful of chilly air. The sting was a welcome distraction to the pain in his chest. “When will you rest?”

   “I’m not here,” the hallucination reminded him. Cold fingers slid into his, squeezing. “It never truly gets easier, does it?”

   Damian didn’t squeeze back. He knew the fingers would disappear if he acknowledged their existence. “It will for you.”

   The phantom child fell silent. Damian stopped at the end of the drive, staring out into the street as if--- should he stare hard enough--- his lost brother would appear.

   No one approached, and when Damian finally squeezed the cold fingers resting in his own, the touch was gone.

Chapter Text

   When it came to his kid, Tim was not in the habit of doing things halfway. He tended to swing in the opposite direction, actually. A very long way opposite.

   He scowled grumpily at the spreadsheet on his computer. His AI had scanned a library of Christmas images before helpfully spitting out a database of associated objects and events and iconography, effectively breaking down Christmasy nostalgia into its concrete elements. Tim had programmed said spreadsheet to prioritize the symbols by frequency, which had taken some fine-tuning. (He probably needn’t have bothered just for his computer to tell him to get a tree, presents, and a big meal.)

   “I’m home!!!” Jason called loudly, slamming the front door of their apartment. “Man, it’s cold as balls out there. You think it’ll snow tonight?”

   Tim started violently, catching his precious technology before it could crash from his lap to the ground. He saved his progress before flicking over to the weather app, grinning. “Predictions are indecisive, but this is Gotham, so probably. It’ll turn to brown slush as soon as it hits the ground.” (Ah… That didn’t sound very festive.) “Our balcony will be pretty, though. And the roofs, too.”

   Sounds of Jason rooting around in the kitchen could be heard. He made a happy grunt when he found the steaming hot chocolate waiting for him. (Tim always knew exactly how long Jason spent at the library based on his mood, and he was proud to say Jason’s waiting drink or food had never gotten cold.) “Yeah, white snow is k-kinda rare in such a packed city, I guess. There’s n-no nature.”

   Tim found himself thinking for a moment of Drake Manor. The grounds were even more extensive than those at the Waynes’, since the Waynes’ cut off at the cliffs without more than a couple miles of forest. Drake Manor had an impressive hill for sledding, too--- He remembered making the most of the Christmases when his parents weren’t at home, setting up an automatic coffee machine to make him hot chocolate exactly when he decided he’d had enough sledding and snowman-making and snowball-collecting for a fight he’d never have. It sounded sort of sad, but… He did miss those days. Then, abruptly, he realized how hard Jason was shivering. “Your coat isn’t warm enough for these conditions; come help me pick out a heavier one.”

   Jay was quick to scramble onto the couch, tucking himself up under Tim’s offered blanket, ironically, just like a baby bird under a wing. He pressed his nose into Tim’s shoulder, shivers easing. (Tim didn’t think he would ever get used to it. This… trust.)

   He cleared his throat, pulling up a new tab. “Let’s look at hiking gear; then you can get good insulation AND enough pockets for a Bat.”

   “Bats don’t have pockets.”

   “These ones do.” Tim bundled Jason aggressively into the fluffy blanket, hugging him with one arm while typing with the other. It was slower going, but he wasn’t impatient this time. His kiddo was home and warm and sipping a good drink with lots of calories; he couldn’t ask for anything else.

   Jason piped up to give opinions about the coats they started to look at, but otherwise, he didn’t say much. He was probably thawing out, but his silence was thoughtful. After a good half-hour, he finally muttered “Real white snow would be pretty cool, huh?”

   “I’ve got access to a snowy forest we could run around in,” Tim volunteered quietly, keeping his eyes on the screen. “There’s a big building we don’t have to worry about being caught in, too. We could practice weather-oriented stealth there, and guerrilla snowball fights. Dami always quit those way too early--- The guy had no cold tolerance.”

   Jason’s voice lit up. “Seriously?”

   Tim felt a smile steal onto his face. “Yeah, totally seriously. We’ll bring our grapples and… I dunno, a sled. What else would you wanna do?”

   “I wanna cream you in a snowball fight is what I wanna do,” Jason answered confidently, hitting his fist into his hand for emphasis. “I also wanna figure out what’s the big whoop about snowmen.”

   “Depends on if you’re good with sculpting. One heavy year--- Y’know the statue The Thinker? Damian got ambitious. You could try what baby-preteen-me did by making a Spock snowman that everyone misinterprets as an elf. You could also try for Elizabeth Bennett or Mr. Darcy or both if you could find the right accessories.”

   Jason released a startled laugh. “Where am I gonna find a dress from the nineteenth century? That’s not a bad idea, though. When can we go?”

   “When your new coat shows up.” And the gloves. And the thermal socks. And the balaclava. (Tim had loaded the cart by this point.) “So… three days, it says. It should have snowed by then.”

   Jason snuggled closer, a thoughtful scheming in his voice. “Where are we goin’?”

   “Uhhhhhhhh…” Shoot, how should he answer this question? How might Jason react? “It’s the place I grew up. Y’know… before the Bat stuff. It’s pretty fancy, but it’s just a big empty house these days. Not that it wasn’t always.” Oop… Maybe that was too much.

   Jason looked worried all of a sudden. “Oh. Is that… okay?”

   Tim offered a shrug. “I just never bothered to get rid of it. The grounds are way better than the actual mansion, though. I lost my key, so we’ll have to jump a wall or break in through the gate. It’ll be good practice.”

   Jason hugged him tightly. (Which should not have caught Tim off guard, but did.) “Okay. ‘s long as it’s alright.”

   Tim melted a little bit, ruffling Jason’s hair. Such an empathetic kid. “Your Regency Era snowpeople will fit right in. Actually, there is a ballroom attached to the back patio--- I think I still know how to waltz if you want me to teach you. It’ll come in handy if you ever wind up at one of B’s stupid socialite parties.”

   Jason covered a sneeze. “It’s good to be prepared.”

   Tim rubbed his kiddo’s back, suddenly anxious. It took Jay a long time to warm up after getting chilled. That probably had something to do with the healthy weight Jason didn’t have yet. “Are you hungry, bud? I’ve got those chicken pot pies for lunch. Y’know, ‘cause they’re festive.”

   Jason slowly shook his head. “I’m kinda nauseous. Tomorrow?”

   “Sure. How about something lighter, then?” Tim wheedled. He knew Jay was cautious of eating food after that awful flu he’d had a few weeks ago, but it couldn’t be helped. Food was non-negotiable, and ten-year-olds were stubborn. Tim would just have to be more so. “A can of tomato soup will make your throat feel better after being out in the cold.”

   Jason nodded reluctantly, but Tim didn’t get up right away. He set his computer aside to pull Jason across his lap, rubbing slow circles into his back. As long as he was getting cooperation, he could afford to be nice about it.

   Jason eventually relaxed, heaving a sigh. “I’ll pay you f’r a massage.”

   Tim couldn’t help laughing. This damn kid… “Pay me by eating, okay? Go ahead an’ lie down.”

   Jason flopped into the vacated space with an impressive amount of drama. “Y’re best ‘kay?”

   Tim sat on the edge of the couch, rolling his eyes, and pressed his hands into Jason’s back. “More or less pressure?”

   “More? Kinda… sore.” Jason grunted unhappily into the cushion. “Stupid new sets…”

   “You’ll get used to it. I’ll just have to attack your soreness more often to make it up to you.” Tim smirked knowingly. “You could also… y’know. Stretch. Like you’re supposed to.”

   “Boooooo,” Jason whispered softly.

   Tim ignored the dork in favor of kneading firmly. He focused on the muscle groups targeted by their latest workouts. He was painfully aware, of course, of how easy it would be to cause harm like this, what with the kid so zoned out, so trusting, so relaxed; his bones and muscles and tendons so light under Tim’s hands--- Tim’s hands were so much stronger than they needed to be for this. He could crush Jason. It wasn’t like he hadn’t killed before; he---

   Tim took deep breaths, trying to calm down. It was just a massage. His intrusive thoughts had taken an interesting turn since he’d been hugged into submission decided to let Damian in again. It wasn’t a side effect he’d anticipated, but the Pit’s influence was nothing if not unpredictable. He really shouldn’t have been surprised at this point, so he turned his attention once more to the task under hand, ignoring every stray thought. He could do this. He wouldn’t hurt Jason. He only had to work perfectly; everything would be okay.

   His meditation snapped like fragile ice when Jason mewled pathetically. Tim raised his hands as fast as he could, quivering with anxiety. “Are you okay?”

   Jason grunted tiredly. “Bad spot maybe? Prob’ly pulled it. Stupid.”

   Relief crashed through Tim’s body. “Hey, no, shhh. We’ll just take it a little easier next time. Your form was fine. I’ll be gentle.”

   Jason hummed contentedly as Tim began again, lightening his touch around the injured shoulder to increase blood flow without actually stretching the muscles. He soon left it alone, moving on to Jason’s arms, shoulders, the pressure points at the base of his skull---

   Hey, remember that time you snapped that assassin’s neck? You read about it in a book and then you panicked in the middle of a fight and then you panicked MORE because it actually worked?

   What do you want me to do with this information? Tim asked of his own brain, exasperated.

   It just seemed relevant, came the cheerful answer from that train of thought.

   Tim ignored it. Relevant information was the stuff from the acupuncture book he’d read once, not… that. Acupuncture was the information he was using right now. He had a relaxed kid under his hands.

   Horror crept in as he realized that there were tears on Jason’s slack face. Shit--- He’d let himself get distracted instead of focusing on what he should have been doing he knew he’d hurt Jason he should have been paying closer atten--- “Did I hurt you?!”

   “Mno,” Jason mumbled sleepily, hiding his blushing face behind his hoodie. “It’s jus’ good shit. ‘m not used to it. S’rry.”

   Tim sighed shakily, giving Jason’s back a few last broad pressure strokes with the palms of his hands, then covering him up with the blanket. That was enough for now. “Rest for a few minutes; I’ll warm up your soup.”

   Handling the finicky stove was much less nerve-wracking than a simple massage had been. Tim tried not to think about it too hard, but by the time he got back to the living room, steaming bowl in hand… Jason was asleep.

   He sighed deeply, stashing the bowl in the microwave. Jason didn’t do enough sleeping, either, so Tim wouldn’t be picky. Food could wait. So could his work--- Jason was twitching fitfully; an early sign of sleep deprivation. He hadn’t been able to rest when he was sick unless Tim was holding him tightly, like he’d drift away otherwise. Like they both would.

   Tim flopped carefully onto the edge of the couch, boxing Jason in, and tucked an extra blanket around their shoulders. Jay’s expression eased instantly, relaxing into deeper rest. They’d probably skip training tonight, but just because Jason needed it. Not because his sleepiness was contagious… or anything…

************

   Thankfully, the kid had no qualms about eating sugar-coated cereal for breakfast three days later. (Gremlin.) He’d acted a little suspicious all morning by staying glued to his phone during his normal morning reading hour, but Tim didn’t mind. He was sort of busy buying string lights and garlands and stuff--- Christmas shit he’d never bothered with. Why decorate a temporary home for only one? He had to keep it a secret, though. Secrets were a big part of the festivities, apparently, and Tim had plenty.

   Jason lost his solemn air as soon as they got to the manor’s grounds. His eyes bulged, and he almost dropped the warm Starbucks chai they’d bought on the way. “Whoa.”

   “Yeah, it’s a pretty big place,” Tim buffered sheepishly, dragging their sled behind them. It felt very strange to be dressed in vigilante-adjacent winter gear while just openly wandering Drake Manor’s grounds. “You’re not gonna stumble into a neighbor’s yard without taking a big hike, so we’ve got the whole forest to ourselves. We’ll---”

   His words were cut short by a snowball poffing to pieces against the back of his head. He whirled around, eyes narrowed, to see Jason packing another one. “Oh, it is ON.”

   Jason fled with an excited high-pitched giggle, lobbing another snowball. Tim dodged that one, scooping up his own handful as he gave chase. Jason threw a pretty good onslaught despite his constant speed, and though Tim was good at ducking, he shouted praise anyway--- and taunts, too, because what were big brothers for? Obnoxiously inconsistent messages, that’s what.

   Once they’d gotten a good way into the trees, Tim lulled Jay into a false sense of security by running right past the kid’s hiding place behind a big oak tree. He silently grappled up into the branches, then shook the one over Jason’s head, sending a small avalanche of snow tumbling down. Jason cursed fluently in Spanish as he dove away, but Tim was laughing too hard to taunt, because yes. Golden.

   “Come down and face me like a man, coward!!!” Jason screeched at him, voice crack included as he launched another snowball in Tim’s general direction.

   “Come up and get me, dweeb!!!” Tim called back, breathless with laughter as he hopped from branch to branch. “What’s your grapple for?”

   Jason fumbled with his grapple, still cursing under his breath, and Tim waited for him with his own at the ready. He’d let the kid catch up a little; Jason deserved a tiny win after being showered with---

   His grin dropped. Either Jason had picked a bad anchor point or his aim was off, because his hook had snagged a dead branch instead of a sturdy one, and he barely tested it before retracting. Tim lunged for the tree branch, hoping to brace it against Jason’s weight, but he slipped at the last second, catching himself with only one hand. He clipped his jaw, bit his tongue, and tasted blood, and with a horrifying SNAP--- Jason dropped.

   The cry of dismay echoed in the treetops, and Tim barely registered Shriek swinging from the shadows to snag Jason from midair until they’d landed on the ground. Wait. What was Shriek doing here? There he stood in full gear, Jason blinking dizzily in his arms like a cat that didn’t understand what gravity was. They were okay. They were fine. They were safe.

   Tim anchored his grapple firmly before landing on the ground, spitting his tongue’s blood into the snow. “Jay. Are you hurt? Are--- Are you o--- What were you thinking?”

   Jason blinked first at Damian, then at Tim, making no move to get down. “I-I’m okay, I think.”

   Tim sighed in deep relief, pulling Jason into his arms for a (very) tight hug. “We have gotta practice testing anchor points, kiddo. And YOU---” He looked up, eyeing Shriek. “Are you some sort of meta that specifically knows when vigilante kids are being stupid? What are you doing here?”

   “I’m just that experienced,” Damian answered breezily, patting Jason’s shoulder, then Tim’s after telegraphing his movements. Resisting the urge to shy away was easy this time.

   Jason slumped into Tim’s hug, grumbling. “Totally would’a won. I’m hungry.”

   The non-sequitur caught Tim by surprise, but he absently dug around in a pocket for one of the granola bars he regularly carried. Squished, but reliable. “Do you wanna go for a fast-food break?”

   “You could follow me back,” Damian suggested carefully, speaking with the air of a dog that held an egg in his mouth. (He was in Shriek’s winter gear, too. Had he known where they were?) “Alfred’s just put on a large pot of soup.”

   Jason perked up. “Oh, can we?”

   Tim… hesitated.

   “If you are about to tell me that you don’t want to bother anyone, I hope you are prepared to have snow dumped down the back of your coat,” Damian said evenly.

   Jason muffled his giggles in Tim’s coat. Tim, personally, felt very wrongfooted. “Uh… okay. Soup. Sure. Do you really want to, Jay…?”

   Jason nodded eagerly, already dragging Tim after Damian’s retreating figure. Tim allowed himself to be dragged, not entirely sure how he ended up in this situation. It felt oddly scripted. What was he missing? Jay seemed happy, though, especially at the prospect of soup, so… he’d just shove down his uneasiness about not feeling in control. Everything was fine.

   That resolve lasted just as long as it took for him to step into Wayne Manor. Warmth flooded them in the entryway, and the nostalgic scent of Alfred’s winter soup sent a strong shiver down his spine. That was strong sense memory. Keep it together, Drake. For Jason.

   “Gentleman,” the grandfather butler greeted warmly, emerging from exactly nowhere to take their coats. “What a pleasant surprise. No suits in the house, Master Damian. I assume you are here for dinner; shall I put the kettle on?”

   “That would be amazing,” Damian answered appreciatively, hurrying towards Bruce’s study (and, consequently, the Batcave). “Jason needs food, and I’m sure we could all do with dry clothes.”

   “Come along then, Master Jason,” Alfred said cheerily as Jay finally kicked his last boot off.

   “Wait---” Tim trotted after his big brother, at a loss. “We’re not interrupting your training, Dami?”

   “No,” Damian admitted with a slightly guilty air, opening the secret door behind Bruce’s shelves to slip down the staircase. “I confess that I must have been lured under false pretenses. Jason contacted me this morning to meet him at Drake Manor, requesting an exchange of information. He did not tell me anything else, nor that you would be present, and I thought it unwise to press. Do you know what that might be about?”

   Mentally, Tim facepalmed. Aloud, he laughed. A lot of things were suddenly making a lot of sense. “If he’s got something to tell you, I don’t know what it is, but I might’ve hyped up your snowman-building skills a little. Maybe he wanted you to join us. Sorry. He’s ten.”

   Damian’s deeper laugh joined in, soft and friendly and achingly familiar. “I’m glad it’s nothing serious, then. At least I was in time to catch him; aside from the fall, it looked like you two were having quite a good time.”

   “Yeah, uh, that’s kinda why we were practicing in the first place.” Tim disappeared behind a corner of the locker room while Dami changed on the other side. Talking to his brother right now was surprisingly easy. It was easier if he didn’t think too hard about where he was and who he was with and when was the last time he’d opened his locker where--- as Alfred had promised him last month--- there was a spare change of clothes waiting in his current size.

   Tim swallowed thickly, pulling on the sweats, then stealing a hoodie from Damian’s locker for good measure. Maybe no one would notice.

   Damian’s eyes got glossy as Tim rejoined him. Oop. He had noticed. “Are you hungry?”

   “Yeah.” Tim cleared his throat, glancing up the stairs at nothing. “Why don’t we---”

   Damian clapped him on the shoulder, making Tim jump about half a foot. Guilt flooded him as soon as his brother snatched his hand away. “I’m sorry… I… I didn’t…”

   Damian seemed to change his mind, telegraphing his movements as he pulled Tim close. “No, it’s alright. I apologize. I wasn’t thinking.”

   Tim forced himself to take deep breaths, allowing Damian to draw him in. Of course Damian wasn’t on alert. This was the Batcave; one of the most secure places on Earth. Tim should’ve felt safe here. Damian felt safe here. “Sorry; my nerves are just frayed. My kid fell out of a tree an’ all.”

   Damian tucked him close at first instead of answering, smoothing a flat hand over Tim’s back as if to rub the tension away. “I should have realized that you’d be nervous. You’re safe here. I promise.”

   “Mph… quit apologizing,” Tim scolded gruffly. The tone probably did nothing to cover up how easily he slouched into his brother’s gentle touch.

   Damian, the annoying shit, took advantage of Tim’s temporary weakness. He squeezed Tim tightly, turning his hug into a hold, and slowly rocked from side to side. He was trying to help Tim relax. (It was working.)

   “Some meet-up you went to,” Tim mumbled dizzily, trying not to give up entirely against Damian’s shoulder. “You show up expecting information an’ you end up feeding one dork an’ another…” He trailed off, forgetting the end of his sentence. Where had he been going with that? Embarrassed, he hugged his brother back. This… This was fine. This was okay. Probably. Right?

   “Habibi,” Damian murmured fondly when he pulled away.

   Akhi, Tim wanted to respond, but he didn’t. He wasn’t strong enough, and besides, he didn’t have an emotional breakdown on the calendar today. “D’you think we should…”

   “Ah… yes. Yes, of course.” Damian hurriedly lead the way up the stairs. “You must eat.”

   Tim trailed after, trying to ignore the unpleasant prickling under his skin where he now wasn’t being held. Once they’d reached the kitchen, he slid into a chair next to Jason, wrapping an arm around him instead. “Cozy?”

   Jason leaned into his hold, yawning. Alfred had already changed him into warm clothes his size that Tim had never seen before, and he sported a mustache of whipped cream. “Mhm.”

   “I wore you out, huh?” Tim ruffled Jason’s hair, fond. “Just lemme know when you wanna go. We can crash as soon as we get back to the Nest.”

   Damian, who had sat himself at the other end of the island, perked up. “It is beginning to snow out; why don’t you spend the night? There are plenty of rooms.”

   Tim glanced up uncertainly, then at the three empty plates in front of his sleepily blinking kiddo. Jason was clearly about to enter a food coma, and Tim felt once more like he was missing something.

   “A wise suggestion,” Alfred said primly, setting mugs of hot chocolate in front of the newcomers before clearing Jason’s away. “At minimum, I must insist that you eat a good meal before leaving. I trust the nutmeg béchamel chicken soup will be acceptable?”

   Tim nodded along, backing down from the obvious challenge with a sheepish grin. “I can’t say no to your cooking, Alfie.”

   It was a trap, of course. Tim quickly learned the exact reason for Jason’s food coma; the rich, soothing soup and soft, warm homemade bread and thick hot chocolate stuck stubbornly to his ribs, making the idea of arguing his way out the front door into the snow extremely unappealing.

   “Status?” he muttered, rubbing Jason’s shoulder.

   “Mmm,” Jason hummed coherently, yawning. “M sleepy. G’nna fall over.”

   “Don’t do that,” Tim laughed softly. “You’ve had enough falling to---” He stopped short. Someone was stomping around in the entryway.

   Damian stood up, smiling brightly. “Father is home.”

   Ironically, this did nothing to ease Tim’s sudden anxiety. Had anyone told Bruce that Tim was here? Was their presence unexpected or unwelcome?

   “Tim,” Bruce breathed from the kitchen doorway a few seconds later, which confirmed the answer to that first question as a no. He sounded incredulous and hopeful and anxious all at once. Tim suppressed a wince.

   “And… And Jason,” Bruce tried to recover. “I’m glad to see you two.”

   “I believe it is considered cheating to enter yourself into a snowman-building contest, Master Bruce,” Alfred chided lightly, and Tim finally glanced up. His Dad Bruce was absolutely covered in snow, even though he’d tried to remove his coat. He… wasn’t in his gear?

   “It wasn’t intentional,” Bruce answered cheerily, brushing snowflakes from his hair. “We’re due for a winter storm tonight; I stayed out late to help people home.”

   “Naturally. The fridge and pantry and cellar are, as always, well stocked in case we find ourselves snowed in,” Alfred said reassuringly, taking the snow-covered clothes away from his pristine kitchen.

   Tim stood up awkwardly. It was a struggle to stay awake, but--- “We’d better leave before it gets bad, then.”

   Jason made a grumpy noise, swaying. Tim barely caught him.

   “You’re welcome to stay, of course,” Bruce said carefully, using that same dog-with-egg air that Damian had. Tim wondered who had taught who. “I was planning to build a fire in the den with the wood I split yesterday.”

   “Please?” Jason put in, leaning heavily against Tim’s chest. “Y’ gotta spend Christmas w’th family.”

   Tim sort of bluescreened at that. Your Peregrine has encountered a problem. Please do not shut off your computer. “Is… Is that really what you want, Jay?” (Because he couldn’t--- He couldn’t say “Yes” for himself or even “No”; everything was complicated and weird and tied up in attempts at logic that kept tangling with… but it was so easy to prioritize Jason. It was simple when it wasn’t about Tim. There was no pressure that way.)

   Jason yawned with another hum of agreement. “F’r you.”

   A sudden thought sharpened in Tim’s mind. Jason had a tendency to tip his hand when he was tired. He picked Jason up koala bear style, thinking it through. If Jason had been planning as Tim suspected… Precious little sneak. They weren’t related by blood, but the baby bird was definitely Tim’s kid. “Alright, okay, let’s get you into bed.”

   “Fire,” Jason protested with a mighty cling.

   “Fine.” Tim huffed in amusement, following Damian to the den. It wasn’t long before Jason was bundled in at least three fluffy blankets, cocooned snugly into a corner of the plush couch as Bruce built a fire in the ornate fireplace. It took a hot second for Tim to stop jumping at the pops of the flames, so he busied himself with fussing over his sleepy brother. There was no reason to keep freaking out over nothing. Everyone was fine.

   Jason made an adorable mewling yawn, going boneless in the pile of warmth. He didn’t last ten seconds before falling asleep.

   “Precious,” Damian hummed nearby. “He really trusts you.”

   Yeah, normally he’s smarter than that, Tim almost shot back, but Damian hated it when he said that stuff. “He’s just tired. Did you figure it out?”

   “Figure what out?”

   “I don’t think he called you for snowman-building.” Tim stroked dark curls from Jason’s sleeping face, grinning. He was so proud. “Clever little twerp… How far ahead did he plan? Did he Google how close Drake Manor was to the Waynes’? Was he reading weather forecasts? He had a few days to plan… How much was intentional?”

   “He wanted you here,” Damian concluded softly, sitting on the edge of the couch.

   “Cutest piece of Bat manipulation ever.” Wait, was it weird to call Jason a Bat? He was Tim’s, but Tim wasn’t…

   Damian rested a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Agreed.”

   Tim forced himself to relax. Nothing was wr---

   One of the logs burned down, slipping with a loud crumbling noise. Tim startled so hard that he fell back on his butt.

   Instead of backing away this time, Damian took a knee to pull Tim into his arms. “No, shhh, it’s okay. You’re safe here.”

   Being well-fed seemed to do nothing for Tim’s emotional exhaustion. He sagged helplessly into Damian’s affection, hiding his blushing face. Almost nothing had the power to make him feel safe anymore. Damian was the exception. “Akhi.”

   Damian’s shoulders relaxed. Before Tim knew what was happening, the older boy had picked them up, walked them to the other couch, and sprawled on top of h---

   Tim went down like a tree felled for firewood. Damian’s crushing weight shut his brain off; he didn’t… How long had he been holding that tension? A day? A week? The last time he’d seen his brother? His taut muscles slowly slackened, utterly useless against this form of affectionate restraint.

   Damian stroked a hand through Tim’s hair, breathing deeply. Tim could barely feel it, but he knew their heartbeats were syncing. They always did. The fire made another loud snap, but this time, it sounded distant. Tim didn’t react. Damian’s gentle touch made the den feel like a dreamscape. Y’know… if his dreams were… ever this pleasant. Hazy… Safe… Warm…

   “Y’re doin’ this on purpose,” Tim slurred accusingly.

   Damian hummed in agreement, going limp to apply maximum weight effect. “I want you comfortable, habibi. You are mine, after all.”

   The rest of the tension melted away. Tim buried his face in Damian’s shoulder, sniffling emotionally. He… He could let this happen. He could let his big brother have him. Just for a while. Just… for now. “I think th’s ‘s… th’ only way t’… stop me thinking. That didn’ make sense.”

   “Of course it did.” Damian pressed a kiss to Tim’s hair, a strange tightness in his wavering voice. “Go to sleep, habibi.”

   Lulled into a peaceful stillness far beyond escaping, Tim did.

Chapter Text

   “I always loved you, you know.”

   Tim turned sleepless green eyes on Damian’s face, smiling faintly. “Always?”

   “Always.” Damian raised his hands, imitating a snapshot. “With your big eyes and your huge camera and your goofy hair.”

   Tim made an expression of indignation. “Goofy?”

   “You styled it weirdly.”

   “That wasn’t a style, that was to keep it out of my face.”

   “Goofy.”

   “Fine.” Tim knocked his head back against the headboard, wrapping his fingers around Damian’s pulse point. “Even when you didn’t know me?”

   “What… the hair?”

   “No, idiot; the love.”

   “Oh. Yeah.” Damian took Tim’s other wrist. Just… to hold. “Like a parasocial sort of thing. A definite fondness. Y’know, a baby stalker isn’t so different from… like… a pet crow.”

   “Oh, so I’m a pet crow now?”

   “With big eyes for shiny things.” Damian shook with quiet laughter, matching Tim’s giggle. It was too late for this nonsense. “Like… like trouble.”

   “I think you should go to bed.”

   “I’m IN bed. YOU go to bed. This one’s mine.”

   “Tt.” Tim huffed softly, but there was something… something guilty about it. “Do you want me to leave?”

   “No.” Damian pulled his brother’s head in, planting a sappy kiss in his hair. Precious, precocious habibi. “I was having nightmares, too.”

   “Hm.”

   “Hm.”

   “…about my goofy hair?”

   Damian’s shoulders bounced with sudden laughter. “Yes… exactly. Your goofy hair.”

   “Y’know…” Tim yawned widely. “I might just keep you, slander aside.”

   “Y’know…” Damian squeezed Tim a little tighter. “I think I’ll keep you, too.”