Chapter Text
Damian Wayne hardly imagined himself being a slave to some company as an unpaid intern. He was the Wayne heir! He should not need to be trained by some fool who is a mere few years older than him; He should be taught by those whom he will replace in the company’s future.
Alas, Father insisted he was to be assigned to someone outside Wayne Enterprises yet still trusted enough not to take advantage of him (as if anyone could take advantage of Damian Al Gul-Wayne) and supposedly Timothy Drake fit the conditions nicely.
He was also an arrogant, moronic, brat. The only reason he even has even a slice of his company is because his parents died in a hostage situation in Egypt. Drake, of course, was attending Gotham High at the time and apparently only found out through the news. He barely mourned, instead swiftly taking control of the company to keep it afloat.
Greyson thought it was tragic, Brown was suspicious, Todd and Gordon were seemingly indifferent, and Damian… he needed more information on the subject to come to a reasonable conclusion.
But when Damian expressed that notion, he did not intend for his family to volunteer him to be Drake’s temporary assistant while his real one was “taking a break” (Damian was not yet convinced Father did not bribe the girl). Greyson called it a win-win, Damian just wanted to work on his latest case with Alfred the cat sitting with him.
Damian smoothed out what little crinkles in his suit had formed from his trip from Wayne Manor to Drake’s elevator. Father gave him a soft smile, clearly interpreting the movement as nervous fidgeting instead of its intended purpose to fix his outward figure. As much as he loathed the opportunity, it was still essential to maintain a good public profile, or however Father puts it.
The elevator chimed and the door slid open to reveal Drake standing outside his office, smiling at them. A cold, tired smile that gave nothing away about his current emotions.
“Good to see you again, Mr Wayne and I’m glad to formally meet you, Damian.” Drake greeted, offering both Damian and Father a handshake. Father shook it, but Damain was inclined to refuse. If he was offended, Drake didn’t show it. “Let’s talk about Damian’s internship inside my office.” The Imbecile led him and Father to his office to discuss their plans.
***
If Tim was told to hire another assistant other than Tam at gunpoint— he’d eat the bullet. Knife, fork, and plate. Nothing and no one could compare to that glorious woman. Tam kept him from quitting on the spot when faced with the metric tons of paperwork he had each day and always managed to clear his schedule if and when something came up.
Alas, even miracle workers needed a break. Tim’s glorious assistant planned to spend the weeks after the holidays with Lucious and Luke, then spending another week with friends at a ski resort (all expenses paid by Tim himself, of course). Which meant— no matter how much Tim pretended it didn’t— he would need an assistant to cover for Tam while she’s gone.
He didn’t expect nor want Bruce Wayne to volunteer his youngest son as soon as the position was announced. Batman and Robin. Tim had spent a non-small amount of time and effort keeping away from the Waynes and all the paranoia and superhero work that came with them.
He did this for two reasons.
1. Tim was a Meta on top of running a company previously used to smuggle artifacts into the country and he never publicly mourned his parents death (or privately, for that matter)--- he shouldn’t need to explain why he didn’t want to be on the radar.
2. Tim’s secret identity would be in jeopardy. Tim liked working alone. It was a fact. Sure, he never really worked with other people in the first place but he knew that if Batman found out his identity, it would spell disaster. He was suspected to be a rogue when he first debuted and only recently gained the trust of the GCPD after exposing one of Scarecrow’s human experimentation sights. That was two years ago. Even when he first officially debuted six years ago and exposed an orphanage that was selling kids for labor and sex work (He found the spirit of one of the girls there and she had helped him get evidence), it took two weeks of sending piles and piles of papers, photos, and evidence for the GCPD to even look into it. Safe to say, Tim was uncertain of what would happen if the Bat family found out he was the one solving cold cases decades old or busting open new ones seemingly out of nowhere.
But he digressed, distracted, and deflected.
Tim lead Damian and Mr. Wayne (because god forbid he wasn’t formal enough to make the devil himself blush like Juliet when Romeo steals her first kiss. Holy mother of fuck, he hated reading that in school) to his office and sat down in his chair.
“So, as we know, this is a temporary position for Damian over his two week winter break.” Tim began, cooling his expression into something he hoped was neutrality. “Now, to discuss payment for this position—“
“Oh that won’t be necessary. I was actually hoping to give you and your company some compensation for allowing Damian this opportunity.” Mr. Wayne interrupted, a signature gala smile plastered across his face.
Tim scrutinized the man’s face before stealing a quick glance at his son. Damian would’ve held a cool expression if not for the slight frown and crease between his brows. The kid was angry— if not, at least irritated— at this whole situation.
Me too buddy, Tim thought, me too.
The back of his mind burned with suspicion. Was there another reason
The three of them stay in the office and flesh out scheduling, training, and what exactly Damian was going to be doing. Obviously he couldn’t take over all of Tam’s work (Atlas himself was strong enough to carry that weight on his shoulders), but he was able to act as an intern and manage Tim’s workload.
When they were done, the Waynes left and Tim was finally able to address the elephant in the room.
How was he going to continue his detective work with Damian working beside him?
Because, well, what separated him from the Bars most notably was he didn’t have a select time he would conduct his work. In the day, it was either stalking online or tracking down spirits or ghosts on his breaks. At night, Tim would traverse Gotham’s rooftops and alleyways, either tracking down suspects or investigating crime scenes.
Tam knew around twenty-five percent of what he did in his free time. She controlled his breaks and could see marginally what he did on his work computer, so she knew somewhat about his little escapades. Tim wouldn’t have put it behind her if she already found out his identity as… uh.
See, he didn’t officially name his vigilante mask. The people in Crime Alley called him Phantom, East End and the occasional Bristol citizen called him The PI, the rest of Gotham called him names akin to Spirit, The Shadow, The Grey Ghost. And the crime families? They just called him a nuisance.
But again, this all means that doing work during the day includes a very high chance of Damian becoming suspicious of his numerous breaks and work on his computer.
Tim will just… figure it out. What’s a few weeks with some extra precautions?
***
Damian bid farewell to Todd on his first day and took a calming breath, preparing himself for two weeks wasted on job training he certainly doesn’t need.
Drake smiled as a greeting but kept his focus on the computer at his desk when Damian got to the office. He didn’t pay it much mind, instead focusing on commanding his own desktop (Technically, it was Fox’s computer, but that was just what Father called “Semantics”).
From there, Damian could control Drake’s meetings, breaks, and monitor his workflow, though he did not understand the use of the last one.
Despite his presumed position, Drake treated Damian as an intern, ordering him to make coffee runs the first half of the day(he did note that he never saw him eat throughout the day). To get the moron back, he put all of Drake’s meetings in the same afternoon, adding no breaks and stretching the day longer than his usual ones.
The CEO’s glare rivaled Batman’s when he saw the change. Damian couldn’t deny he was proud of himself.
The next day was quite the same.
On the third day, Drake decided to address him as a person rather than a servant.
“Good morning, Damian. I… need to talk to you.” He said, nodding to the seat in front of his desk.
Damian takes a seat, but before he even adjusts himself to become comfortable, Drake pushes on.
“I have… realized that I haven’t been the kindest to you the past few days and I would like to apologize for that. Some major changes were made for you to get this position and they have… affected me.” He paused to rub his eyes.
“I accept your apology, Drake, and can sympathize with your feelings towards the “changes” as you called them.” Damian spoke before the other man could continue. Greyson had told him that apologies were meaningful if done right, and were not to be taken lightly. Apparently, they were a sign of vulnerability, and were freely given by the perpetrator instead of forced by the victim. Though Grandfather would never be considered a victim, Damian’s confusion on the subject still stands.
Drake looked at him with poorly masked surprise.
“Damian, there is a big event coming up next week where all of Gotham’s major businesses and families donate to some big cause and normally Tam would help me brainstorm but she’s not here and—” The CEO took a breath to calm himself before speaking at a slower, more calculated pace. “Would you have any ideas? DI is a medical industry with special focus on imagining processors but we do have branches in regular photography and archaeology.”
Drake seemed genuinely distraught and Damian had to stop himself from scoffing at such incompetence. It seemed like the company could not even be run without Fox as Drake’s right hand. But Drake was still trying, and had asked Daman for advice (probably his first good decision of the day), so he spared the question a thought.
“A fundraiser for special needs animals.” Damian concluded. “They are often overlooked and expensive to care for, and therefore often unlikely to get adopted or taken care of properly.”
“Thanks.” Drake smiled, giving Damian some sort of twisting feeling in his gut.
Both went back to their work but Damian was distracted by something he needed to address.
“You haven’t scheduled or even asked for any breaks for yourself.” He commented. If Drake didn’t have any breaks, then neither did Damian since the moron couldn’t run his own company without someone to hold his hand.
“There’s just a lot of work to be done.”
“Fox’s logs show that you took breaks almost every hour on some days.” Damian glared at Drake. He scowled back.
“Well, I’m compensating for having a different assistant and the upcoming event week.”
“Well when do I get a break?”
“Whenever you feel like you need one, just tell me when you’re leaving and for how long.” Drake was clearly becoming irritated. Good, Damian thought.
“That’s not possible, as without me you and your company will certainly crumble at the hand of your incompetence and neglect.”
Drake seethed. “Fine. Put one in for us around 12:30 and we can go get lunch somewhere.”
“I suppose the vegetarian cafe down the street will be acceptable, though I doubt it will meet the basic standards.” Damian remarked as he found he quite liked seeing Drake in his current state. It was quite entertaining.
“Basic standards of what? And you’re vegetarian? Your dad never mentioned that.” He could hear the slight wheeze in Drake’s voice as the boy became increasingly distressed. Both had given up on their work at that point.
“Try not to gawk, Drake. Some of us in Gotham have principles.” Damian smirked.Drake glared.
“You’re not even from Gotham, you brat.” The imbecile had the gull to look proud of himself at the subpar insult. Damian was not impressed. “Besides, I know a place that you can eat at.”
***
Tim was both incredibly annoyed and incredibly intrigued by the youngest Wayne. The kid was brash, blunt, and mean but also clearly sheltered and socially awkward. He knew that the news said the brat came from some illegitimate fling Bruce Wayne had but Tim used to suspect that it was more Batman related than Bruce Wayne.
His theories were later confirmed when he found the ghost of two League of Assassins members that killed themselves to protect their cause. They talked about “The Demon’s Heir” and “The Detective.”
With more digging, Tim was able to piece it all together. But he didn’t know what to do with that knowledge when the kid was sitting in front of him with the look of a grumpy wet kitten.
See, if Tim was going to be forced to take a break, it was going to be on his own terms. Hence, them both being in a little family-owned cafe in the smack dab of Crime Alley (Jason could Kiss. His. Ass. If he thinks Tim’s gonna stay out of his territory, the guy owes him at least five Batburgers).
Tim sipped his drink (Iced Chai with 10 pumps, no milk, and 5 shots of espresso because he may hate coffee but he hates sleep more), quietly studying Damian.
“So, Mr. Wayne treat you alright? I’ve noticed you only call him father.” Earning a confused look from the brat, he just swirled his drink and waited for an answer.
“Father has treated me well, same with Greyson and Pennyworth. How does the way I speak of him print such a question?” Ah, so the fun begins. Explaining that modern English formalities have different meaning to the Shakespearean tongue this kid was raised to speak.
“It’s a minor thing, but considering you also call everyone close to you by their last names, the press will pick up on it. In the middle and upper class of Gotham, you will find that people tend to call their parents by certain names that tend to give away how they feel about them.” Tim wanted to make this as easy and simple to understand as possible as to not fry either of their brains.
He continued. “For example, those like Tam who have normal or above average dads call them, well, “Dad.” People like me who had… subpar dads or were bred for finality and never given the option to fully connect call them father. In the worst cases or in places like Crime Alley, kids will call their parents by their names. People also don’t go around calling their family and everyone they know by their last names which is why the two put together are uniquely concerning.”
Damian stared, blinking slowly as he processed the information.
“Father and Greyson have never brought up such concerns to me.” Oh, bless their hearts, they never even tried to teach him how to brave the media sharks.
“They probably just wanted to be comfortable, but people in the media pick up on these things— especially since the past… tragedies. You should probably at least start calling people by their first names, though. If you’re not comfortable calling Mr. Wayne “Dad,” you could give him a nickname like “B” for simplicity’s sake.” Tim finished, almost out of breath. Why was he ranting about Gotham grammar to his new intern? God, he needed another coffee, he was not awake enough for this.
Damian was giving him a weird look, too, but he wasn’t lucid enough for that either.
At the end of the day, Tim goes straight to his suit and out to follow up on some leads.
In his knee-length tench coat, bullet proof armor, and hood and mask, he was ready to roll.
Out on the street, Tim saw spirits and people alike. This part of Gotham almost never slept, a strange ecosystem that thrived on drunks, strip clubs, and a casino run by the Falcones keeping it alive at all hours. That wasn’t what drew him to it though.
It was the alleyways, trusting, looping, a maze only the dead could traverse without a map. It was on the edge of Crime Alley, too, making the spot common for runners and traffickers of the like.
Tim dropped into a shadowy alley lit only by a broken street lamp. It appeared empty, but he knew better. In places like these, tragedies marked the corners, streets, and buildings.
He called them ghosts. They were not alive nor dead, just a memory preserved by some twisted force so that people like Tim could reap the rewards of seeing it happen again.
Creeping deeper in, he heard voices. A scream. There were faint outlines: Three men cornered a girl. Not a fun picture.
The ghosts sharpened and he could see the wrinkles in a man’s shirt, the fear in the girl’s eyes, the gun in the second man’s hand. But Tim got one wrong, it wasn’t fear in her eyes— it was resolution.
“Fuck off ya shits!” She yelled, backing further into the dead end. Trapped.
“Nah, I don’t think so, little lady. You’ll fetch a fine price and our boss s‘runnin’ outta stock.” The second man said, waving his gun around in an attempt to be threatening. “So why don’t ya come with us peacefully so we don’t have to ruin that pretty little face of yours.”
“I’d rather eat shit.” The girl sneered. The men paused and the girl took those few precious seconds to lunge towards the gun, grabbing it, pointing it towards her right ear, and pulling the trigger in one swift motion.
The visions dissipated, leaving only cold, needle-like silence.
She was dead— killed herself because she'd rather be dead than be sold to sex trafficking.
Tim took a moment to take it in. Then he breathed out.
Ghosts were never happy but this one just showed him how he needed to step up his work.
There was a noise above him.
“Look at that fuckin’ weirdo. Thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes.”
It was the same voice he had heard just moments before.
Tim looked up and saw choppy pink hair with green tips and combat boots, the same hair that he saw matted with blood seconds ago. It was the girl, now flipping him off as he looked up at her.
He returned the gesture.
“The fuck?!” She squawked in surprise, jumping down and landing beside him with ease (oh, how he envied ghosts without joint pain or injuries from falling). “Can you see me or some shit?”
“Or some shit.” He smiled. Hopefully she could help him find the traffickers trying to kidnap her.
She studied him for a few seconds.
“I’ve seen idiots like you in movies, come to help me with my ‘unfinished business’?” She put her hands on her hips and cocked a brow.
“Actually I would like your help catching the people who tried to kidnap you before you died, but I’d be glad to help you after.” If she had decent information on them, there was a chance he could wrap up the case in the single night— a personal record.
“Sold on the first part. Been following those chuckle fucks for days now so I’ll help ya but I don’t need help ‘moving on,’ I ain’t done with this city yet.” She grinned at him. “Call me Milly.”
***
At dinner, Damian had a lot to think about. He was finding Drake tolerable to be around and a valuable source of information. Information that his family had neglected to share with him.
“Drake told me that it can be disconcerting when I call people by their last name.” Damian said casually, picking at his food (Dr- no, Timothy’s horrid order still plagued his mind, prohibiting him from eating. It could no doubt be used to torture even the most hardened of soldiers).
Father and… Richard (not even Grandfather’s most infamous methods of torture could get him to call the baffoon Dick) exchanged unsubtle glances. They remained silent.
Damian thought about including the fact that Timothy had also suggested he call Father a nickname. ‘B’. He knows that Richard calls Father by the letter outside of their vigilante personas but very rarely— and certainly not in any circumstances where Timothy could’ve eavesdropped. The coincidence tickled the back of Damian’s brain.
Nothing more was said during the meal, just tension-filled silence. Father and Richard shared argumentative glances.
Suiting up for patrol, his usual routine was interrupted by a new mission briefing.
“As this is the time of year where Gotham’s crime is at an all time low, we are expanding our search for Spector. It’s high time for them to be confirmed as not a threat.” Father started and most in the cave sagged with exhaustion. The search for the figure the GCPD dubbed “Spector” had started before Damian was rescued from the League (something that he was pretty sure Spector had something to do with).
Only Br- Stephanie lit up at the thought of capturing them. She was the closest any of his family had gotten to incapacitating the person, it was at the beginning of her career and so all the dimwit did was hit them with a brick.
The idiocy who he worked with never ceased to amaze Damian.
Richard took the chance to jump in as all of them were here.
“I’ve asked Jay to help too, we could use the extra hands and it’s an easy bridge to build.”
Father glared.
“It’s not wise to have him on a mission while he’s still targeting Damian and Steph.”
“True, but we have him in need to know, so if we stay out of Crime Alley we should be fine.”
Father and even Barbra still sounded concerned, a reasonable response. They had recently come to an uneasy truce with Jason Todd after a year of conflict and multiple instances of Stephanie and Damian being targeted.
Nevertheless, if working with the fool made it so they were able to catch Spector, Damian would do his best to act civil as he was the only member of the family that had yet to interact with them.
Partnered with Batgirl and Nightwing and patrolling the east border of Crime Alley(Father and Richard had protested but both him and Stephanie desired words with Red Hood), he kept a keen eye for their target.
“Putting 50$ on the table for whoever finds ‘em.” Batgirl challenged, mere minutes after the start of patrol.
“I’ll play that, but how about we raise it to 250$ to make it fun.” Nightwing urged on and Damian felt a competitive rush wash over him. He didn’t have the money to pay if he lost, but that meant no one knew he was playing.
“500.” Came Black Bat’s coarse voice through his earpiece.
“Deal.” Nightwing, Batgirl, and Oracle answered.
“Deal.” Damian whispered as he split off from his group.
He could use the money for new paint supplies.
***
This was by far the most successful night of Tim’s life.
He and Milly had successfully infiltrated and gathered enough evidence from the trafficking ring to shut it down for good. All he had to now was drop off the info at Hood’s per Milly’s request (he would normally send it to the GCPD but the spirit had insisted.)
He was giddy.
He had tipped Hood off a few times before so it should’ve been fine. He just hoped that he was still independent despite the Bats figuring out his identity as Jason Todd.
Tim emerged from an alley bathed in shadow, Milly falling in step just behind him. It was… unnerving to see a spirit that would rather stay here with him, than go on and leave this goddamn city.
They climbed up the fire escape and he sent Milly into the apartment to scout for Hood or any other bodies.
Tim was reminded of why he never moved into a smaller area in the city where he could do his work: There were simply too many ghosts.
These artifacts of random people’s last moments engraved on the city itself. There were normally multiple per apartment, and he could always sense several around at all times— simply too much screaming, begging, and other noises for anyone to handle.
Drake manor— thought empty— was quiet. His parents were the first to own it and they died overseas, so no ghost or spirit had ever touched the grounds. It was his own little holy space.
Good, he didn’t want to think about his parents or what would have become of his life if they stayed on earth after theirs.
“Hood’s the only one inside. He’s hidin’ in the corner like a lil wimp.” Milly reported, resting her elbows on the window ledge and giving him a cocky grin.
Tim just sighed.
He climbed through the window and turned straight to Red Hood, who was camouflaged in shadow with only the gleam of his helmet's white eyes giving him away. They faintly glowed green.
“What are you doing here?” The man growled, stepping further into the dimly lit room (like he hadn’t known Tim was coming beforehand. The Bats were always so dramatic). It had just occurred to Tim that Hood had a gun in his crossed arms and multiple other firearms in his person— including what looked like an automatic rifle strapped to his back.
“I came to give you info on a sex trafficking ring. Thought we could strike a deal.” He really only wanted a milkshake or some Batburger, but he also wanted to stay calm in front of the man with a gun in his hand.
“A deal?” He asked and Tim could hear the smile behind the red helmet. “I have a deal for you.”
“Great! So, how about we-“
Tim stared at the pistol (it was clearly a pistol from this close and he could make out little specs of glitter leftover from Bargirls sparkle bombs) now aimed directly at his face.
“You take off your mask and I don’t sell you out to the Bats.”
Tim tried to swallow but his throat was dry. Was he not on good terms with Jason? He tried to hide his hurt as his favorite Robin leveled a gun to his head.
Distantly, he heard Milly’s voice behind him.
“Dude, he’s already working ‘em. Robin’s on the next buildin’.” Milly said, still by the window. “That fuckin’ bitch!”