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Well, Tim thought, waking up stiff and aching, yesterday certainly could have gone worse.
Not much worse, mind you. He'd taken quite a beating against Killer Croc, and while he and Cassandra had managed to get Waylon back to Arkham by the night's end, Tim hadn't escaped completely unscathed. He'd been smashed against a wall, sprained his ankle, and his ribs were probably one solid bruise, though he'd gotten lucky in that none of them were broken. Probably.
He'd hoped that he'd be able to sleep off some of the pains, but it seemed he had not been that fortunate. His ankle screamed as he rolled off the bed and tried to put weight on it. Awesome. At least it was Saturday, and he didn't have to worry about walking all over the school. He could grapple more than walk on patrol if he had to. Or even take computer duty and offer Babs a day off.
Alfred had made chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast, and Tim managed to make it down the stairs, glad he hadn't run into anyone else. He hated being hurt. He hated the pity, the silent judgment of his abilities, and the way others had to do more to make up for his absence. So if nothing was broken, and Tim could pretend he was fine… then he was going to do all he could to keep up that pretense. Jack and Janet Drake did not raise a complainer.
So he was pleased when the dining room was empty, and he could limp to his seat without anyone seeing. The manor wasn't too full—Dick was in Blüdhaven, and Jason was who-knew-where doing who-knew-what—but soon enough, Damian and Bruce took their own seats, and Alfred came in with a towering stack of steaming pancakes and a pitcher of orange juice.
Tim took a few pancakes and poured himself a glass. Moving hurt. He resolved to do as little of that as possible for the rest of the day. It was a good thing that lifting his fork to his mouth took fairly minimal effort, or he might just have had to go hungry.
"Tim," Bruce suddenly said, and Tim paused mid-bite. "What are your plans for today?"
Where was Bruce going with this? Bats didn't patrol during the day. And Tim was definitely planning on taking advantage of that to rest as much as he could. "Not much."
"Damian mentioned yesterday that he'd like to try tennis. I was hoping you might be able to teach him some basics."
Before Tim could even answer, Damian spoke up. "I did not say I wanted Drake to instruct me, Father."
Thank goodness. Maybe he could get out of this imposed duty without having to aggravate his injured body further. …Then he saw the look Bruce was giving him, and internally sighed.
Outwardly, he plastered a smile on his face. "It's okay, Damian. I'd be happy to teach you."
Damian made a face and went back to his pancakes. Tim did the same and braced himself for the rest of the day. Hopefully, he could have Damian do the running around, and rest his ankle as much as possible.
When they were done eating, Tim decided it was best to simply get things over with. Bruce expected him to start the training today, and another hour wouldn't let him heal any more than he already was, so there was no point in procrastinating. "Let's go," he told Damian, grabbing his own tennis racket, a spare, and a container of balls. And then an extra container of balls. He wanted to do as little chasing after them as possible.
The nearest park with a tennis court was only a three-minute drive away, and Tim did his best not to favor his hurt leg as he climbed out of the car. The last thing he needed was Damian pointing that out.
"Alright," he said, as they reached the empty court and handed Damian the other racket. "Show me how you're holding it. Good—okay, but it's more like… this. See how that feels? It'll give you better control over your swing that way."
Damian rolled his eyes. "Yes. I get the point, Drake. Can we actually play, now?"
Wonderful. Tim resisted a groan at the impending activity. "Sure. You go to the other side of the net."
When Damian was in place, Tim tossed a ball in the air and gently served it to him. "I’m just going to hit it at you," he said, readying another shot. "Don't worry about playing a proper game. This is just to get you used to it."
Damian made it all of five serves before sighing exasperatedly. "This is boring. I would appreciate if you actually returned the shots. I have gotten every serve of yours back over the net, and you do not even try to move for them."
Because moving feels like getting hit by a bus. Tim took a deep breath. "It's just practice, Damian. We can play later."
Damian huffed. "This is why I didn't want to practice with you in the first place! I wish Richard could play tennis."
If Damian was trying to get him mad, it was working. Spite bubbled in Tim's chest. So Damian wanted to play? Then fine. Tim could oblige. Damn his stupid ankle. "Then let's play." Tim tossed the ball high in the air, and served it at him as hard as he could. Damian didn't want to take things easy, even being brand-new to the sport, so Tim wasn't going to give him one ounce of grace for it. That would show him.
Damian missed the first shot, and Tim couldn't help but feel glad for it. Served him right. Tim sent another one at him, which Damian did successfully hit back, so Tim lunged to return it again, and—
He stepped on his sprained ankle to do so, which instantly buckled under his weight. Tim collapsed to the ground, scraping his knee in the process. He hissed through his teeth. Fuck.
"You still couldn't return it?" Damian scoffed, crossing his arms. Then he hesitated. "…Drake?" A hint of worry replaced the disdain in his voice, apparently noticing that Tim still hadn't stood back up.
Tim clutched his ankle. "I'm fine," he managed. It wasn't broken. All he'd done was just worsen the sprain. Didn't mean it didn't hurt like a motherfucker, though.
Damian was already heading towards him. "No, you are not. I didn't realize you were already injured."
"Didn't want you to know."
"Regardless. I should have noticed. …I'm sorry for making you run. I could tell you didn't want to."
"It's okay." Tim tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "It's not your fault. You didn't even want to practice with me in the first place."
Damian pressed his lips together. "That's not entirely true. I do enjoy it, Drake. I simply…" He trailed off, looking down. "I wanted to be better than this, the first time I played you."
"You're afraid to be a beginner?" Tim tried to stand, using the chain-link border fence for support. "That's nothing to be embarrassed about, Damian. You learn fast. I’m sure you'll be great in no time. I'm not even all that good of a player myself."
Damian quickly reached out to grab Tim's arm, letting him balance on his shoulder to help him walk over to the sideline bench. "You're good enough for Father to believe you could teach me."
Tim sank onto the bench, injured foot stretched out in front of him, and shrugged. "If you would rather be trained by a real teacher, I'm sure he would understand and arrange it. You gave it your best try today."
"So did you." Damian looked down at Tim's injured ankle. "I really am sorry about that. And I think… when it's healed… I would like if you were the one to keep teaching me."
Tim smiled. His ankle still throbbed, but the knowledge it wasn't totally for nothing did help, a little. "Then in that case, Damian… I'd be happy to."