Chapter Text
The biggest issue with being a child of one of the wealthiest and most influential men alive was not the kidnapping attempts, not the paparazzi, not even the slimy businessmen who would use any advantage such as sucking up to minors to get ahead. No, it was the cursed social events that they were required to occasionally attend in a poor attempt to appear like a normal functional family.
Damian loathes such events with a hatred one could only have after being invited over to a neighbor’s for dinner, only to be served celery sticks and crackers with cheap American cheese on them. (Damian will never forgive the Clearwaters for such an abhorrent slight.)
Regardless, it’s a summer Tuesday night and Damian has once again been suckered into attending such a torture session. The sky is clear out on the lawn of Wayne Manor where a night garden party is in full swing. Damian has managed to weasel close to the edge of the party tent so that he could distract himself with watching the stars. The clamor of utensils on dishes and tipsy laughter washes around the boy. A voice, clear and confident, rises above the rest.
“That would be absolutely delightful, Mrs. Hargrove.”
Damian turns.
Timothy stands surrounded by a gaggle of wealthy socialites whom he has hanging off his every word. The woman his older brother is talking to is elderly and she responds to Timothy’s reply with a pat to his hand and a grandmotherly kiss to his cheek, which Timothy bends down to accept. Mrs. Hargrove bumbles off and Timothy flashes a cover-worthy smile and turns back to his audience. They converge, entranced.
Damian watches equally impressed and jealous.
Since birth, Damian had been raised to be prince in all but worldly public recognition. He can command a squadron of assassins, can make people fear him despite his age, can assess supplies and weaponry and know how to best utilize his assets to secure a win. He is the son of Batman- Bruce Wayne- and the grandson of Ra’s al Ghul- the Demon’s Head.
But not all- in fact many- battles are won through the hearts of those fighting, and this is where Damian looks at Timothy and desperately tries to not feel inadequate in comparison.
At the age Damian is now, Timothy had already been placed in charge of his own team- Young Justice.
Despite the… exuberance the team members displayed, no one can deny the success rate of their missions, and no one can deny that a large portion of that success is thanks to Timothy’s utter determination to make them successful.
But more than that, Young Justice (and subsequently other young heroes) look to Timothy’s leadership and respect it. They listen to him. Damian is still met with slight suspicion and unease.
Truthfully he has no one to blame but himself. He’d been rude, scathing even, when he’d first been introduced to the other young heroes, and they’d yet to forget that completely.
The Teen Titans have since softened to him, especially now that Damian has joined them on several missions and especially with Richard at their head, but Young Justice has yet to do so. Likely due to their loyalty to Timothy, and Damian’s prior murder attempts.
But the period of time where Damian desired the respect Timothy got and Damian believed he himself was deserving of stretched long and was not without further maiming attempts between the two. Damian, who had mostly experienced the cold side of Timothy could not understand the discipline in him that others seemed to respect so much.
And then he learns that Timothy had been soft on Damian, or at least his version of it.
It had come to a head one day, and while Damian could not recall the specifics of what he said, he could recall that it had been something particularly cruel about Timothy and his relations to his birth parents.
Timothy had turned to him, and for the first time Damian felt a sliver of fear at the rage in the other boy’s face.
He recalls hearing once about Janet Drake- the deceased woman he’d just insulted- that she was a demon to be on the other side of. He supposes, for all his chattering about Timothy being her son instead of a Wayne, he should have been properly aware of the vitriol he’s just invoked.
“Blood matters so much to you. Especially for when it comes to inheritance and emulating lineage. But look at you. You’d think as someone with your pedigree” - the word is spat- “you’d have inherited a sliver of self-control.”
Self-control.
Something Damian has always strove to master. Because mastering self-control means mastering everything else. Everything that would make him the best League member, the best Robin, the best son.
Yet Timothy, who has somehow despite his lesser heritage surpassed Damian, looks at him and finds him lacking in the one thing Damian needs to be perfect.
And Damian was helpless to do anything but watch as Timothy stalked off.
From them on he watches Timothy closer.
And he learns.
Learns the way that Timothy, while he can be biting (like he is to Damian), can be gentle. Learns how he demonstrates care towards his friends, his team, his family, even his equipment. Learns how Timothy adjusts his fight patterns and skill sets to accommodate those around him. Learns how he dives into each case with dedication and intentionality, from the biggest Riddler puzzle to the smallest robbery case, because he believes that the victim is deserving of such care.
But most of all Damian learns that Timothy is self-control. Timothy, should he desire it, could annihilate a vast majority of the world’s heroes. (The evidence sits in a file regarding the future where Timothy inherited the cowl, and Damian reads it and wonders.) But Timothy, despite knowing that future- the potential he has- does not strive for more.
He demonstrates self-control when he coaches his team through training exercises. Pushing them to be better, but never past their limits. He shows self-control when apprehending criminals in cases that have the rest of them shaking with the urge to destroy. He shows self-control when Damian says something that others would have (had already in some cases) retaliated with more than a snapping reply.
Damian watches and learns that Timothy has self-control, not because he desires to be the best, but because it is what others need.
Damian learns that Timothy is selfless, and from his brother’s example, Damian learns to control himself.
There is something… freeing in it. He discovers for himself that while a mastery of a variety of skills means that he has the potential to do more, it does not mean he has to. He learns to be content.
But he still watches Timothy.
Even now, as the elder practically dances around the party, Damian observes how he weaves words and body language together to capture and entrance the hearts and bank account investments of the other influentials. All so that the family company can thrive, support their city, and fund their night lives.
Damian wishes he had Timothy’s words. Wishes that he could use them to speak to the older boy. To apologize for that past, to get closer to him. But his self-control is not quite capable of reigning in his sour tongue, and so Damian watches and learns and hopes.
And then someone new approaches his brother, and Damian has the rare moment of preparing himself to come to Timothy’s aide, because that newcomer is none other than Lex Luthor.
The youngest Wayne slips through the crowd, working his way towards the pair. He has utter faith in Timothy, that his brother will do nothing to jeopardize their company or night identities, especially to someone as brilliant and cunning as Luthor. But Timothy has a weakness when it comes to Luthor, and that weakness comes in the form of a six foot one inch tanned boy with midnight blue eyes and curly hair.
The Wayne family has yet to crack what exactly Kon-El means to Timothy, but they know he is… something. And Luthor is not known to be the kindest man on earth, much less father.
Damian moves faster.
He arrives just in time to hear Luthor say “I always look forward to expanding my business’ horizons. My son’s recommendations are always so insightful, I do look forward to seeing how Gotham receives us.”
What a load of bull. Both the Waynes know that whatever the young Kryptonian said (if he’d said anything at all), Luthor likely was doing the opposite in a bid to antagonize his son.
“It is rare for any business to thrive in the city,” Timothy states diplomatically. He looks utterly at ease and concern splashes over his face. “Aren’t you worried about our city's crime… statistics? I wouldn’t want your employees to be caught out.”
Luthor laughs. “And yet you’ve managed to make your… sponsor’s company thrive.”
How dare he. Damian’s self-control has grown, but he will not let this slight go unaddressed. He pushes forward, ignoring the flashing warning in Timothy’s eyes.
“Timothy is brilliant,” he says hotly. “The youngest and wealthiest shareholder of Father’s company, and the brain behind our R&D branch. The successful moves that Wayne Enterprises has made these last few years are all thanks to my brother’s insights.”
Despite his past stances, Damian has grown and now refuses to let Timothy be reduced to nothing more than a charity case. A hand presses firm, but steady on his shoulder.
Timothy is irritated at Damian’s intervention in a somewhat peaceful conversation, but he is also acknowledging Damian’s defense of him.
But Luthor is not one to back down from a challenge, and Damian grits his teeth in regret as the man responds.
“Ah, Derrick was it?” (A sharp squeeze stops Damian from responding to the jab.) Luthor smirks. “How cute of you to come to your friend’s defense.” The people around them titter. Damian clenches his fists. “But you should run along, kid. These are adult matters that I’m sure are boring to you. Why don’t you go try more deserts? I would hate for you to miss out when your bedtime is surely approaching soon.”
It’s barely eight o’clock.
“Damian,” Timothy says low, warning. Louder, he replies, “Apologies, Lex, Damian has interest in our Father’s company and has been learning in his free time. He’ll be one of the best when his time comes.”
“Ah, I see,” Luthor says. His eyes flick dismissively over them. “Well, I wish you the best of luck, little Wayne. With your past I’m sure there’s still much you don’t know.”
Damian has been learning self-control. He’s still years behind Timothy. His control snaps.
“I know,” he hisses, “that your company is a hairsbreath away from going under because the government can’t stomach having to deal with you and your horridly questionable business practices on projects that are worth little more than the dung of a camel.”
And ouch, Timothy's nails are now digging into Damian’s shoulder sharper than needles. The crowd around them looks insulted to have even heard Damian’s words. Luthor looks utterly apocalyptic, and Damian’s brother is quick to cut him off.
“Damian!” he says, voice sharp. “Lex, truly I am sorry-” and Damian winces because he knows that Timothy is practically writhing inside at having to utter those words to this man- “my brother is tired and I’m sure his social battery is drained. We’ll take our leave-” and oh he must be furious at having to be the first to leave the conversation- “and let you enjoy the rest of your evening without having to deal with our rudeness. Damian, would you please apologize to our guest?”
Their audience coos, enchanted back to Timothy’s side. They exude pity for the poor boy having to concede social points to reign in his kid brother. Luthor, recognizing the change of tides, holds his tongue.
“I am sorry,” Damian recites, stony. He could technically do better, but Timothy seems to accept his (minimal) effort and releases him.
“Again, Lex, I apologize. Please give my secretary a call should you need any sort of advice or help regarding your new branch into Gotham,” Timothy turns and begins to walk away, calling for Damian over his shoulder.
Damian untenses, moves to follow, but then-
“Inbred desert rat,” Luthor spits under his breath. “It’s no wonder your mother didn’t want you anymore.”
Damian has been insulted before. Been cursed at and scolded. Been physically hit and wounded. This conversation alone has been filled with thinly veiled barbs. But Luthor is a mastermind, a manipulator, and the man knows the perfect way to slide a knife into the heart and twist.
Damian’s breath hitches, catches in his throat, and he finds himself unable to snarl back a reply.
‘It’s no wonder your mother-’
The ballroom has gone silent. The air and people inhabiting it have gone still, like a forest hiding in the entering presence of a predator.
Timothy has turned back around.
His crowd, who had once been watching the young man with rapt intrigue now shuffle in their places, uneasy. “Drake,” someone mutters nearby. They sound awed. “He looks like Janet.”
They sound afraid.
Damian has been on the receiving end of Timothy’s ire, his irritation. But the look his older brother now fixes on Lex Luthor is different, more. A hatred burns in icy blue eyes that Damian has never seen, never even heard of before. (And he is the grandson of a villain.)
Timothy opens his mouth and acid, corrosive and lethal, drips from his words.
The party is over soon after that.
Damian retreats to his room as soon as he is able. Timothy stays behind to bid the guests farewell. His eyes are still smoldering like the embers of hell.