Work Text:
It doesn't really click for Tim until he sees Damian have a meltdown over Dick trying to convince him to change his schedule. Then an understanding blooms.
“Grayson, my schedule is fine . Leave me be at once.” Damian's voice rings out from the other room. Tim lets out a near silent sigh, rolls his eyes, and dutifully keeps one ear on the conversation in case he needs to intervene. Dick has gotten it into his head lately that Damian keeping such a rigorous schedule means he's working himself to the bone to prove he's being productive, a product of the way he was raised. And of course he doesn't believe Damian when he says that's not what it is at all, and since Damian can't explain exactly why he's so stringent about his schedule, Dick believes he's right, and has been trying to convince Damian to relax a little.
It hasn't been going well. Damian is getting more and more frustrated with every cajoling word about ‘ everybody is equal here no matter our output’ that comes out of his mouth. Dick means well, but being a Bat means not being able to let something go, and this is one of those things where a different plan of attack is required if he wants to get anywhere.
Tim, personally, doesn't see the big deal. God knows he kept an absolutely iron-clad schedule when he was a kid. Despite being left almost completely home alone, he regulated himself as if he was running a boarding school for criminal boys. Damian is probably just one of those kids who like routine.
Dick eventually leaves, and the room goes quiet for a moment. Tim begins to return to his work when a cut off scream sounds out. He jolts.
Quickly setting down his laptop, he pads silently in the direction of the sound, a little worried despite himself. That was definitely Damian, but he doesn't sound scared, just angry.
Still, it's unlike him.
With quiet steps, he peeks into the doorway, and—
There's a recognition deep inside him of this scene, though Tim has never seen this from the outside. Damian is curled up on the ground, letting out choked and hoarse screams for only seconds at a time before he clamps his mouth shut. His face is shoved into his knees and his hands are clutching at his hair, tugging in a way that no doubt causes pain.
It's like looking into a mirror and seeing himself at ten. The only difference is that Tim let himself scream as loud as he wanted because nobody was home to hear.
Every habit of Damian's that Bruce is clueless about suddenly comes back to Tim at once, and something clicks. This is a puzzle piece he didn't even know he was missing, but now the full picture is blatantly obvious despite the missing pieces.
Damian acts exactly like Tim, ten years old with undiagnosed autism.
Tim had learned to manage it out of necessity— high society doesn't lend well to throwing things because the suit you're in feels so bad you want to throw up. If Tim had to learn, then Damian definitely had to. The league is not kind to people who are not silent and unflappable, and a young child with autism is neither unless they manage to train themself out of it.
(Or have it trained out of them by someone else.)
Damian is going to hate this intrusion upon what is no doubt supposed to be a hidden moment, but Tim can't just let him hurt himself like this when he knows exactly how to help.
He steps forward, deliberately putting pressure on one of the few creaky floorboards in the living room. Damian's head shoots up. He shoots Tim a truly nasty sneer. Its effect is lost due to his red-rimmed eyes, though there's a concerning lack of tear tracks on his face.
Tim ignores his snarl and slides to the floor next to him. “I'm gonna grab your hands, but I'm just moving them, okay?”
Damian gives him a dirty look, but doesn't say to not do it. Tim wouldn't usually take that as an okay— he might be unable to speak— but he isn't shaking his head either, just glaring.
He firmly unclasps Damian's hands from his hair, and then guides them down to instead tangle in the fabric of his button up. “You shouldn't hurt yourself when you're like this,” Tim says. “Try rocking instead. Like this.”
Tim lets himself rock back and forth in place, swaying. Damian gives him an absolutely scathing glare, before choking out, “you look ridiculous, Drake. I am not going to do that. There's no point to it.”
“The point is to help you calm down without hurting yourself,” Tim corrects. “But okay. How about humming? That's not ridiculous.”
“... People will hear, and everybody in this household will be insufferable.” Damian looks hesitant. Tim counts it as progress.
“This house is stupidly big, and Dick left. C'mon, just try it. If it doesn't help I'll stop bothering you.”
Damian sniffs. “If it will get you to leave me be, then I suppose I'll suffer the embarrassment.”
And then Damian begins humming. It's stilted and hoarse, and his body is still tense, but eventually he gets into a groove. Once Tim recognizes the song he's humming— something from the radio that Dick likes, actually, It's kind of cute how much he takes after Dick in sneaky ways when it's not so damn annoying— he begins humming too, quiet and barely there so as to not overwhelm Damian further.
His shoulders slowly untense, and he loses the death grip he has on his shirt. When his humming peters off, he looks genuinely surprised as he states, “oh. That worked.”
Tim nods. “Of course it did.”
Damian narrows his eyes at Tim. “How did you know it would?”
“I deal with the same thing you do.” Damian scoffs, but Tim continues undeterred. “You get angry a lot for no reason, right? Sometimes when you're uncomfortable for a random reason you want to claw your skin off? You have a hard time talking to people?”
“Tt. Father has said that it is because of my ‘upbringing’, and that I'll learn to deal with it in time.”
Tim winces. “Bruce means well, but he's definitely wrong, because I grew up in a way different situation and I'm the exact same way. You're even doing that thing I used to do where I'd make constant eye contact because my mother said it was rude to look at the floor.”
Damian immediately flushes, scowling as he drops the intense eye contact he was making with Tim and instead looks at the logo of his t-shirt. “What about it?” He grinds out through his teeth. “If you are just here to mock me—”
Tim raises his hands in surrender. “Woah, no! I'm here because despite you being a little shithead, you deserve to know what's going on with your brain. Have you ever heard of autism?”
A glare, this one a little offended and a lot scared. “I am not defective , and to imply so is—”
Narrowing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and deliberately cools down the simmering rage at that descriptor. Children this young only repeat what they've been told, and Damian grew up in a place with a lot of fucked up ideals. If he wants to get anywhere with this conversation, he needs to keep his head, or Damian will get defensive in response.
“I'm autistic.” Tim says. Damian stares at him. “Am I or am I not still a competent human being?”
“Do they know?” There's hope there now, buried under the surface derision.
“They do.” Tim confirms. “All they did was do a stupid amount of research and add a pair of noise canceling headphones to the desk in the cave. They're not going to care.”
Damian scoffs, but his face has relaxed from the tense sneer it was curled into before. “And— you think autism is why I do this.”
Tim nods. “I'm almost positive. It's not a bad thing, and a diagnosis can get you more specific help. I guarantee Dick will stop bugging you about changing up your schedule to relax once he realizes why you keep it that way. I can talk to him for you, if you want.”
“No, I shall do it.” Damian says, though he hesitates briefly and adds, “but if you insist on being there, do keep Grayson in check. He'll no doubt say something stupid, and I already deal with enough stupidity from Todd.”
“Dick is cool about it, I promise, he's just been messing up because he's misunderstanding what's wrong.” Tim hops to his feet, holding out a hand to Damian, who ignores it and carefully gets to his feet on his own. He huffs out a laugh. “Come on. Let's go find him.”
Damian follows behind him as he leaves the room, and Tim is sure to rock let himself stim, rocking back and forth on his feet and twisting his bracelet around.
He needs to be a decent example for Damian, after all.