Work Text:
Tim has a bedroom in the Watchtower. He almost never uses it, at least for sleeping; he usually winds up collapsing on the counter in the kitchen, on the couch in the rec room, and never really sleeps unless he's in his bed in the Manor. He only uses the room once in a while, when he needs a shower or some time apart from the team.
So even though he doesn't have much attachment to it, he's more than a little startled to step in at 2:00 in the morning and find a lump of very disgruntled...something in his bed.
He extends his bo staff without blinking, stepping closer to the bed cautiously. Aside from a bit of rustling, the lump doesn't move, and Tim lightly taps the pile of blankets with his staff. The blankets come flying off all at once, and Tim bats them aside, only to come face to face with a razor-sharp blade and an enraged Damian. He barely stifles a gasp--the younger boy's left eye is swollen shut, he's clutching a bloody slash across his ribs with his free hand, and his teeth are gnashed; either with pain or anger, Tim doesn't know. Maybe both. Probably both.
"What happened to you?" he asks, aghast, and even though he's not alltogether fond of the kid--or at all fond of him--he feels a bit panicked at seeing him all beat up like this...especially in his bedroom at 2:00 in the morning.
"Tt, nothing that would concern you, Drake," Damian hisses, his usual venom a bit strained. "And your bed is atrocious. How do you stand it?"
"I don't," Tim responds flatly, collapsing his staff and placing it back on his belt. "Take it up with your dad. Now, is there a reason you're in said bed, bleeding all over my sheets?"
"I didn't get any blood on the sheets," Damian insists haughtily, and of course he'd address that rather than answer the question. Tim rubs his face, sighing heavily.
"Does Nightwing know you're here?"
Damian hesitates for a split second before spitting out an "of course," but that second tells Tim all he needs to know. "Right..." he sighs. "I'll be right back."
He's startled when Damian's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, and barely restrains himself from lashing out on instinct. "Don't tell him." Damian says, in what's meant to be a demanding tone; but really he just sounds desperate.
Tim sighs. "I won't. Right now, anyway," he amends when Damian glares at him. Damian releases his wrist, and Tim rubs at the limb, throwing a "Relax," over his shoulder as he leaves the room and walks as casually as he can towards the med-bay.
Since one of the squads had been out on a mission, Artemis and Bart are both in the med-bay. Bart's applying cream to a burn on the older girl's forearm. They both look up when Tim enters. "You alright, Robin?" Artemis asks, and Bart looks him up and down quickly before turning back to his task.
"Yep, just refilling my kit," Tim says easily, grabbing a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a roll of bandages, and a bag of cotton balls. He turns and heads back into the hallway, says good night and jogs back to his room. Damian hasn't left the bed, but has slumped back against the headboard, eyes half-lidded. Tim dumps the handful of supplies on the counter before shaking the boy's shoulder lightly. "Damian. Wake up."
The boy doesn't respond, his head just lolls a bit, and Tim grits his teeth. "Robin. Wake up," he tones his voice a bit sharper, and Damian sits up a bit more, opens his eyes wider. When he sees Tim, he rolls his eyes shut again and groans.
Tim huffs. "Look, I know you don't like me, and the feeling's mutual, but at least don't attack me while I get you cleaned up. Alright?"
"Tt." Apparently that's all he gets, but Damian isn't resisting him, so he gets to work. It takes some doing to get the shirt of his uniform off, because by now the blood leaking out of the gash has clotted and dried. Tim's as gentle as possible, and ignores Damian's stifled whimpers, but he admits to sweating a little bit by the time he dumps the shredded thing onto the floor. He traces his fingertip along the slice in Damian's chest; it's not deep enough to have broken a rib or hurt his lungs, thankfully, but it's bled a lot, and looks ugly. "What was it?" he asks as he grabs the alcohol off the table.
"Switchblade." He barely hears the word--it's more of an exhale--but he nods, pouring some of the alcohol onto a cotton ball. "You, um, want something to bite down on?" he asks tentatively, and Damian tosses his head the slightest bit.
"Jus' d-do it," he slurs, and Tim does so, concerned about blood loss. Damian goes rigid under his hands, and the sound he makes draws a grimace from Tim--and some sympathy. He doesn't shush the younger boy, just tells him he's almost finished and works as carefully and quickly as possible. When he's done cleaning it, Damian's limp against the headboard, and Tim is almost grateful as he probes the wound lightly. He didn't bring supplies for stitches, but the cut is shallow enough that he can use glue instead. That, he carries in his utility belt. After gluing the wound shut and wrapping it in bandages, he gets a washcloth from the bathroom and sets to work cleaning the smaller cuts on Damian's face and hands. When that's done, he slides one hand beneath the boy's knees, and one behind his back, intending to move him into a slightly more comfortable position. When his fingers brush Damian's back, however, he freezes and carefully turns the boy onto his side. He nearly gags at what he sees.
Damian's back is littered with scars; shallow, deep, long, short, all sorts. The one he'd brushed against is a raised one than looks more recent than the other ones, though still a few years old at least.
Which is incredibly disturbing, because Damian is nine.
How did he not notice these before?
He realizes he knows barely anything about Damian, aside from his parentage and attitude, and looking now he honestly wonders if even Bruce knows about these. He doubts it, because if there's one thing Bruce is not when he's emotional, it's subtle. At least to those who know him.
Damian stirs, shifting his right shoulder with a quiet hiss, muscles tensing, and Tim speaks softly. "Calm down. You're in the Watchtower, remember?"
A breath, then a soft "tt." Damian carefully rolls back onto his back, letting out a harsh breath as he does so. Tim keeps his distance, watching in silence. When Damian seems to be a bit more settled, Tim begins asking. "Who did this? Why don't you want Dick to find out?" A sudden thought comes into his head, and Tim pales. "Jas--Red Hood didn't do this to you, did he?"
"Tt. No." Damian rasps, and Tim breathes a sigh of relief. "Black Mask's minions," Damian finally admits, sounding vaguely ashamed. Tim raises an eyebrow. "Why were you even there? Where was Batman?"
No answer from the demon spawn, and Tim counts to ten. Just as he opens his mouth to question the boy further, Damian speaks all in a rush.
"Father forbade me from patrolling, if you must know. I know it probably satisfies you that he has finally admitted my unworthiness compared to yourself and Grayson, after all, you...."
"Whoa whoa whoa," Tim says. "Hold up. Bruce benched you? What did you do?"
Damian huffed, clearly irritated at being interrupted. "He presented me with the usual lecture about how reckless I am, and refused to listen to sense on the matter. He treats me as if I am some inexperienced child in need of protection."
Tim bites his tongue to keep from responding with a cheeky remark about how Damian technically is a child. Normally he allows his brain-to-mouth filter to shut off around the kid, since he's such a pain, but he's clearly upset because Tim has never heard him speak this much at length. He hums for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to respond as Damian shifts into a more comfortable position. "You know Bruce only lectures you about being reckless because he cares about you, right?" Tim finally says. Damian snorts loudly and glances away, and Tim continues, "Look at it this way. If he didn't care about you, why would it concern him that you're reckless?"
"Because I am a disgrace to his legacy by acting in a manner that goes against his code of being prepared?" Damian says harshly and Tim is taken aback for a moment. Finally he shakes his head. "If you really think he cares about his 'legacy,' you don't know him very well."
"You're absolutely right," Tim gapes in shock, "I don't. I don't know him at all. He doesn't even look at me...he doesn't want to face the monster of a child he never wanted. He already had all of you. Why would he want another, and a killer at that? I'm his blood son, and yet out of all of you I know him least. He..." Damian stutters, almost hiding it, but Tim hears it. "..he loves Todd more than he loves me, and that imbecile still kills weekly. I've tried to become better and to obey and not to kill but it's so hard and it's never enough to satisfy him..."
Tim is both amazed and horrified at the rambling speech from Damian. As soon as he can think enough to function again, he reaches out and grabs Damian's wrist. "Stop. Listen to me."
Damian glares at him, trying to yank his wrist away. "Damian. Listen." When the younger boy stills, Tim goes on. "Bruce sucks at feelings, alright? He really does. He does love you, but the fact that he does scares him to death. He feels guilty about not knowing you existed and not getting the chance to be there for you...which, in his mind, logically means that he should deal with his guilt by beating up crooks rather than actually talking to you. What he needs to do is to sit you down and tell you he's sorry he wasn't there and that he will be, now--and he will get around to it. Right after some prompting from Dick."
Damian huffs what almost sounds like a laugh, and Tim goes on. "Look, Jason is a work in progress, but Bruce loves him, always has and always will. He feels the same about all of us. I know he's noticed you've been holding back...but like I said, he's not good with words. Eventually you'll learn Bruce-speak, but in the meantime you've got us. You're not a charity case, Damian, you're family. And being Robin is all about family. Okay?"
Damian says nothing, but he nods minutely, and there's a slightly eased look about him that assures Tim that he's gotten through, at least a bit. He squeezes the younger boy's wrist once before releasing it and getting up. "Alright. I'm getting you some water, and then you're going to sleep."
Damian blinks, a bit thrown by the abrupt change in subject. "What about Father and Pennyworth?"
Tim shrugs as he fills a glass in the sink in the bathroom. "If you were benched they'll assume you're asleep. We'll just get you out of here before breakfast time." He hands the glass to Damian, fixing him with his sternest impression of Dick. "Drink it all."
Damian rolls his eyes but obligingly drains the glass and hands it back. Tim sets it on the bedside table. "Good. Now go to sleep."
Damian eyes him suspiciously. "Where will you sleep?"
Tim shrugs. "On the counter in the bathroom? Hanging upside down from the ceiling? I won't, sleep is for the weak?" Damian snorts a half-laugh, and Tim swallows his smile. "Doesn't matter. I have work to do, anyway."
Damian shrugs, eyelids fluttering. He wound up slumped on his side against the headboard after sitting up to drink, and now his posture's quickly slumping. He mumbles something nearly incoherent, but Tim hears the bit that matters. "P'r'haps you 're a d'cent robin 'fter all, Drake."
Tim smiles. He doesn't quite trust the kid not to lop off his hand if he tucks him in, but he settles down next to the bed and flips open his laptop.
It's a start.
He'll take it.