Chapter Text
The call had come in mid-afternoon. A villain called the Puppeteer had taken hostages in the old mining complex on the outskirts of Bludhaven. The Titans were closest. Tim had been with them on a routine patrol when the alert sounded.
"Drake is with me," Damian's voice had crackled over the comm, sharp and imperious. "I will accompany you."
Tim had rolled his eyes so hard Bart later swore he heard it. "No, Damian. Go back to the manor. This is Titans business."
"I will be a Titan."
"For now you’re a guest. There's a difference."
The argument had continued all the way to the cave entrance, Dick's weary "Can you two please just focus?" doing absolutely nothing to quell the rising tension.
The cave was a labyrinth of old mining tunnels, damp and cold, with water dripping steadily from the rocky ceiling. The Titans moved in formation—Kon hovering low, Cassie at the rear, Bart scouting ahead in bursts of speed that left tiny gusts of wind in his wake. Tim took point, his bo staff ready, every sense on high alert.
Damian stuck close to him. Too close.
"Your left flank is exposed," Damian muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're favoring your right side. If someone attacks from—"
"I know how to walk through a cave, Damian."
"I'm simply observing."
"Well, don't."
They rounded a corner and found the first group of hostages—three teenagers huddled behind a barricade of old mining carts, terrified but unharmed. Cassie moved to comfort them while Kon scanned for additional threats.
"There are more," Damian said, his gaze fixed on a distant tunnel. "I hear them. At least four, maybe five."
Tim ignored him, already moving toward the tunnel Kon had deemed clear. "Bart, scout ahead. See if you can find—"
"I said they're this way." Damian stepped directly into Tim's path, arms crossed, chin lifted in that infuriating way that made Tim want to scream. "Are you deliberately ignoring me, or is your hearing as impaired as your situational awareness?"
Tim's jaw tightened. "My situational awareness is fine. What isn't fine is you inserting yourself into every single decision like you're the one leading this mission."
"I'm not inserting myself. I'm providing valuable intel that you're too stubborn to—"
"Valuable intel?" Tim laughed, sharp and humorless. "You hear something in a cave. Congratulations. Want a medal? We're in a cave, Damian. Everything echoes. You don't know what you're hearing."
Damian's eyes flashed. "I know the difference between water dripping and human breathing. But please, continue to underestimate me. It's what you're best at."
"What I'm best at?" Tim stepped closer, his voice dropping to something cold and cutting. "At least I'm actually useful on a mission. You're just here because Dick felt guilty leaving you at the manor. You're a babysitting job, Damian. Nothing more."
The words hung in the air, ugly and raw.
Kon drifted closer, his expression troubled. "Tim, man. That's... that's a little harsh."
Cassie shot Tim a look that was half warning, half disappointment. "He's just trying to help. You know he doesn't... he's not great at the social stuff, but he's not wrong about the hostages."
Tim opened his mouth to respond, to defend himself, but Damian had already turned away, his face a mask of stone. He walked toward the tunnel he'd indicated without another word, his steps measured and deliberate.
"Damian, wait—" Tim started.
"Let him go," Kon said quietly. "You've said enough for one night. We'll follow him. He's probably right anyway."
He was right.
The second group of hostages was exactly where Damian had said they'd be—four children, none older than ten, huddled together in a small alcove. Damian was already with them, his voice low and steady as he instructed them to stay calm, to stay together, that help was here.
Tim felt the guilt settle in his stomach like a stone.
But before he could say anything, before he could even process the feeling, the cave went dark.
Not just lights-out dark. Complete, absolute, suffocating darkness. The kind that pressed against your eyes and made you question whether they were even open.
Suddenly, a voice came. Echoing from everywhere and nowhere, slick and theatrical.
"Welcome, little birds, to my theater. I am the Puppeteer. And tonight, we perform a tragedy.
The floor dropped.
Tim woke to the sound of Bart screaming.
He scrambled up, his head pounding, his flashlight cracked but functioning. The beam revealed a nightmare. The cave had collapsed, splitting them into separate chambers. Through a jagged gap in the rock, he could see Kon and Cassie struggling to lift a massive boulder off Bart's leg. The hostages were with them, crying, terrified.
On his side, just him and Damian.
And on the other side, through a different gap, the Puppeteer stood smiling on a raised platform, flanked by two massive buttons on pedestals.
"Oh good, you're awake," Damian said flatly. He was sitting against the wall, arms crossed, not looking at Tim. "The villain has been monologuing for the past three minutes. You didn't miss much. Something about choices and consequences. Very dramatic. Poorly written."
Tim ignored him, already moving to assess the walls, the gaps, any possible exit. "Can you get through to the Titans?"
"No. The gap is too narrow. Even for me."
"The hostages?"
"No."
"The villain's chamber?"
A pause. "No."
Tim slammed his fist against the rock. "There has to be a way. There's always a way."
"Not this time, Drake."
The Puppeteer's voice cut through again, delighted. "Ah, the Red Robin awakens! Perfect timing. Let me explain your role in tonight's performance."
He gestured grandly to the buttons. "The red button will open the passage to your teammates' chamber. They go free. The little one stays with me." A pause, savoring the words. "The blue button opens the passage to the exit for your tiny companion. He goes free. Your friends stay with me."
Tim stared at the buttons, his mind grinding to a halt.
"You have sixty seconds," the Puppeteer sang. "Choose wisely, little bird. Or don't. The cave is unstable regardless. Tick tock."
Damian listened to the villain's words and felt something cold settle in his chest.
The blue one saves the Titans. The red one saves me.
It was obvious. It was laughably obvious. Drake would press the red button. Of course he would. The Titans were his team, his friends, his family in a way Damian had never quite managed to be. Kon, who taught Tim so many ways to be himself. Bart, who made him laugh. Cassie, who believed in him.
And Damian?
ONE YEAR AGO
The words had come out sharp and precise, aimed to wound, because Damian had been hurting—where he'd felt like the outsider all over again—and hurting people in the League meant making them hurt worse so they couldn't hurt you back.
But Timothy wasn't League.
He had looked at Damian with those too-old eyes, the ones that had seen Jason's death and Bruce's devastation and a thousand other things no one should have to witness, and he had just... nodded.
Quietly.
Damian had assumed he'd gone back to his apartment, or to Titans Tower, or anywhere else that wasn't here. That was what Damian wanted, wasn't it? For them all to leave him alone, to stop pretending they wanted him, to stop making him feel like he was constantly failing at something everyone else seemed to understand instinctively?
But Timothy had come back. Timothy had made him tea.
Timothy had left it on the counter, still warm, with a small note in that cramped handwriting: Calm down. —T
No anger. No demand for apology. No expectation of gratitude.
Just... kindness.
Damian stared at the cup until his eyes burned.
In the League, kindness was weakness. Kindness was a trap, a prelude to betrayal. Mother's gifts had always come with strings—be good, be perfect, be worthy. Grandfather's lessons had always ended with a blade at his throat, teaching him that love and pain were the same thing.
But Timothy’s tea had no strings.
Oh.
Damian made a decision one year ago.
He would be a good little brother.
He would try.
But Drake had made it clear just now.
Damian was the inconvenience. The burden. The annoying little brother who wasn't even a real brother, just a replacement thrust into a family that hadn't asked for him.
He thought about the past year. The tentative truces. The moments when Drake had almost seemed to tolerate him, maybe even like him. The way Drake had taught him to navigate Gotham's rooftops without startling the pigeons. The way he'd sat with Damian in the med bay after a particularly bad mission, not saying anything, just there.
For a stupid, naive moment, Damian had allowed himself to believe they were building something. A bridge. A bond.
But this—this was the test, wasn't it? The real measure of where he stood.
And the answer was obvious.
Drake would choose the Titans. He should choose the Titans. It was the logical choice, the right choice, the only choice that made sense. Damian knew this. He accepted this.
So why was Drake hesitating?
Damian watched him through narrowed eyes. Drake was frozen, his hand hovering uselessly in the air, his face pale and stricken. He was looking at the buttons like they were written in a language he couldn't read.
What are you waiting for? Damian wanted to scream. It's simple. It's clear. Press the red one and go. Save your friends. Leave me.
But Drake just stood there, shaking, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Then, Damian understood.
Drake wasn't hesitating because he was conflicted. He was hesitating because he was trying to find a third option, a way to save everyone, a way to avoid making the choice at all. Because despite everything, despite all their fights and all their bitterness, Drake was a good person. Too good. He couldn't bring himself to choose, even when the choice was obvious.
He was going to let the timer run out. He was going to let them all die because he couldn't pick.
No.
Damian wouldn't allow that.
He pushed off the wall, his legs steady despite the tremor in his hands. He walked toward the gap in the wall that led to the villain's chamber. It wasn't as narrow as he'd claimed. He could fit. He'd known he could fit from the beginning.
"Damian?" Drake's voice, confused, wary. "What are you doing?"
Damian didn't answer. He stepped through the gap, into the Puppeteer's chamber. The villain watched him with amused curiosity, making no move to stop him.
"Damian, get back here!" Drake's voice rose, sharp with alarm. "Whatever you're thinking, don't—"
Damian turned.
He looked at Drake through the gap in the rock. At his pale face, his wide eyes, his hand still frozen in the air. He looked at the boy who had taught him about pigeons, who had sat with him in silence, who had said such cruel things just hours ago.
And he knew. All of it. The fights, the bitterness, the walls they'd both built. None of it mattered now. Only this moment. Only this choice.
Drake thought he was going to do something stupid. Damian could see it in his eyes—the fear, the suspicion, the assumption that Damian was about to make everything worse. He probably thought Damian was going to press the blue button himself, to save his own skin at the expense of the Titans.
The thought should have hurt. It did hurt, somewhere deep and quiet. But Damian pushed it aside.
"Press the red one, Drake."
Drake's face crumpled. "Damian, no—"
"Press the red one." Damian's voice was calm, steady, final. "Save your friends. That's an order."
The ground shook.
The Puppeteer laughed.
Damian stood perfectly still, watching Drake through the gap, waiting for him to understand.
He didn't run. He didn't try to get back. He just stood there, accepting.
Because in the end, it was simple. Drake was worth saving. The Titans were worth saving. And Damian?
Damian was just the burden. The inconvenience. The one who had never quite belonged.
This was where he belonged now. Here. Alone. Making the choice that someone else was too good to make.
The last thing he saw was Drake's face—confusion turning to horror, horror turning to something broken and raw—as the ceiling collapsed between them.
And then nothing.