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Tim realizes what’s going to happen a split-second before it does. Ra’s’s boot impacts his chest hard enough to bruise, even through the armor. Glass shatters at his back, the sound ringing in his ears.
He plummets, almost in slow motion.
There is no panic. He knew, going in, he wasn’t like to walk out alive. That makes it easier; acceptance washing over him, relaxing his muscles. He feels—weightless. Free, almost. The air combs through his hair like gentle fingers—his eyes falling closed under his mask.
It’s not the ground that slams into him.
Instead, it’s a body. The force of it rattles his teeth, hard enough he’s almost worried they’ll crack. An arm locks around his waist, clutching him tight, holding him up even as they touch down on a nearby rooftop.
He’s set on his feet almost gently.
The grip on his arms, after, is not so gentle. Neither is the shake he gets.
“Timothy,” Damian barks, yanking the cowl from his head like they aren’t on some random rooftop, where anyone could stumble upon them. “What the hell were you thinking? Were you trying to get yourself killed ?”
The pure—Tim can only call it panic, despite how ridiculous the idea is—in his voice knocks Tim entirely off balance. Still…
He grins, crookedly. “I knew you’d catch me.” He tucks away the messy tangle of feeling in his chest. He’ll examine it later, when he’s alone.
Damian stares at him—the look in his eyes one Tim cannot read. “You—“ His jaw tightens. He lets go of Tim just as abruptly as he’d grabbed him, cape swishing dramatically as he turns, shoving a gloved hand through his hair, mussing it even further.
Tim…
Maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline. Maybe it’s that he hasn’t fully processed his survival. Whatever it is… Tim feels off-kilter.
This is not how Damian behaves with him.
Damian doesn’t… For one thing, he doesn’t call him Timothy . He doesn’t lecture Tim when he does something reckless—well. Not like this, anyway. Normally he calls him a moron, and whatever other synonyms he can think of, and lists all the ways Tim failed.
This—
This is new.
Damian seems genuinely, terribly upset, and…
Tim feels… guilty. “I…” He steps closer, not quite daring enough to reach out. “ I didn’t mean to scare you, ” he says.
He didn’t… He didn’t think Damian would care.
Maybe that was uncharitable of him. Damian had certainly seemed to care when he died the first time—at least enough to not make the same mistakes with Tim’s successor. But… Well. It would have been Tim’s own fault this time, in a way the last one wasn’t.
“Shut up,” Damian snaps, whirling on him again. “You— Do you—“ He snaps his jaw shut; throat working. “How dare you? How dare you?”
Tim isn’t sure he’s ever seen Damian so incoherent before. He blinks at him, mouth opening, but— He doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, uselessly. “I didn’t… think you'd be this upset.”
Damian flinches like Tim slapped him.
Hell. Tim’s not sure he would have flinched that hard if he had smacked him.
“You didn’t think—“ Damian scoffs. To Tim’s horror, the sound is distinctly wet. “I nearly failed to save you a second time, almost had to discover your corpse again , and you didn’t think I would be upset .” His eyes are glassy; rimming with red. He swipes a hand down his face. “Did you know your body was still warm when I pulled it from the wreckage, Drake?”
Tim—
Tim thinks he might have made a few errors in his calculations.
Damian steps closer to him. Something about the Batman uniform makes him look taller. Broader. Even though Tim has always had to tilt his chin to look at him, he doesn’t recall ever feeling quite this small.
The feeling is enhanced when broad, warm palms cup his cheeks, the kevlar scratchy against his skin.
“I cannot do that again, Timothy,” Damian whispers. “Do not— You cannot put me through that a second time. Please.”
Tim swallows, throat achingly dry. He covers Damian’s hands with his own. His voice cracks as he says, “I won’t.”