Work Text:
Alfred managed to get Tim to stay at the manor. What magic he used, no one may ever know.
Everyone was a mess after Tim casually revealed his training standards. Emotional damage—that’s what the Bats got out of it.
Well, everyone except Tim, who remained blissfully unaware.
⸻
Tim wasn’t blind. He could see that everyone was acting strangely. But it looked like they were all dealing with it together, and as long as none of them were handling it alone, Tim would let it be.
If they needed him, he was here.
Normally, he would have felt anxious about being left out, but after therapy he had come to understand that not every problem required his input. If it was a family matter, it had nothing to do with him, and he should respect their boundaries.
Enjoying the quiet, peaceful time when the world wasn’t ending for once was nice, Tim thought.
He sat in the orangery, watching bees buzz around the garden.
Taking a sip of tea, he hummed thoughtfully.
“Hmm. Tastes a bit like one of my first poisons.”
He looked fondly into his teacup.
“How nostalgic.”
⸻
At the beginning, therapy had been awful.
There had been a lot of lying on the couch and yelling at the ceiling. Some crying and several moments where Tim essentially blue screened mid session.
He avoided talking about anything vigilante-related, and that was how he discovered that even the civilian side of his life contained plenty of trauma that needed addressing.
Dr. Martin was based in Metropolis, but she’d witnessed enough alien invasions not to flinch when conversations drifted toward the kinds of gruesome crimes an average Gothamite might stumble across on their way to work.
And since Tim wasn’t her first patient from Gotham, she understood there was an entire side of his life he would never discuss, even with strict doctor-patient confidentiality.
Almost everyone in Gotham had secrets they intended to take to the grave, small-time criminals, gang members, aspiring rogues, witnesses, or Bats alike.
Saying something, even in therapy, felt like too great a risk.
Too many rogues had college degrees.
What if Dr. Martin moved to Gotham one day, snapped, and became yet another themed rogue running around with secrets that would sell exceptionally well?
No, thank you.
Whenever Tim needed to discuss something of that nature, he and Dr. Martin would search for a “normal” equivalent.
Dr. Martin always marked those entries in her notes with a small star, indicating that the situation was likely more complicated than it appeared but couldn’t be fully explained.
Eventually, they came to the conclusion that due to death of many people in Tim’s life.
He had almost come to expect his loved ones to die if he took his eyes off them.
Apparently, that made him extremely anxious about other people’s wellbeing, constantly monitoring everyone around him while simultaneously losing sight of his own mortality.
Working through that was still very much a work in progress.
⸻
Footsteps approached.
“Can I join you, Drake?”
Damian sounded uncertain.
And the way he said “Drake” felt forced, almost obligatory, rather than the natural way he usually sprinkled it throughout conversations.
It was confusing.
But also kind of cute.
“Sure. Actually, I’d appreciate your help.”
⸻
After the revelation in the cave, Damian had been forced to reevaluate many of his assumptions.
Drake had said he was proud.
And this time Damian couldn’t dismiss it as mockery.
This time he had seen the sincerity he had spent years deliberately ignoring.
Drake said he was proud.
Proud of getting close to…
Drake could have…
And he would be proud.
Their relationship had never been friendly, but Damian had never truly intended to kill Drake.
His attacks had been vicious. He had meant to hurt him.
But not kill him.
Not intentionally.
Drake was infuriating.
Smug.
Mocking.
Always ready with a comment whenever Damian made a mistake.
He wasn’t blood, yet somehow he still belonged.
Damian was supposed to stand at Father’s side, but he hadn’t been chosen.
He hadn’t earned his place.
The blood they shared felt like nothing more than shackles, forcing Father to acknowledge him as a son.
Damian wanted to belong.
And for a long time, he had believed Drake was living the life that should have been his.
Yet over time he had come to realize that even if Drake disappeared, it wouldn’t help him.
It would only leave their family with a wound that could never truly heal.
Even knowing that, Drake’s behavior had often pushed Damian beyond reason.
And now he was discovering that what he had interpreted as hostility had actually been sincerity.
The nitpicking had been advice.
The mockery after Damian mastered a skill had been Timothy expressing genuine pride.
The way Timothy constantly watched him, waiting for a mistake so he could jump in and save the situation…
Damian had always assumed it was Timothy flaunting his superiority.
But Timothy was..
His brother was looking out for him.
Trusting his abilities, yet still worrying.
Watching his back.
And Damian’s response to all those signs of affection had been anger and violence.
The realization changed everything.
Even after Damian hurt one of their own, Todd’s behavior toward him never changed.
Richard remained patient and continued believing in him.
Father never sent him away.
He still looked at Damian and saw his son.
And Timothy never stopped showing him affection, despite having every right to resent him.
When Timothy had been lying broken and bleeding beneath the dinosaur, Damian hadn’t been sure what expression he’d seen beneath all that blood.
Now he was.
Lying there with shattered bones, Timothy had looked up at him and smiled softly before losing consciousness.
If Timothy were to die by Damian’s hand…
Would he wear that same expression?
Would his final words still be:
“I’m proud of you.”
⸻
Damian still wasn’t entirely sure how to behave around Timothy after that realization.
But he needed to stay close.
Someone had to make sure his brother was alright.
It was painfully obvious that Timothy didn’t take care of himself, despite being perfectly capable of doing so.
After all, he spent an alarming amount of effort making sure everyone else’s physical and emotional wellbeing remained intact.
⸻
The manor’s orangery was filled primarily with potted plants.
In the center stood a wooden table, a red couch, and several cushioned chairs.
No matter where one looked, flowers could be seen through the glass.
Outside stretched the garden Alfred lovingly maintained.
Timothy sat there in apparent peace, sipping tea.
The entire tea set had been brought out despite him being alone.
Perhaps he had expected someone to join him.
Since the conversation in the cave, he had everyone’s attention.
Unfortunately, nobody knew how to approach him.
Damian stepped closer.
“Can I join you, Drake?”
He wasn’t sure if calling him Timothy would be too sudden.
At the moment, his brother remained blissfully unaware of the chaos surrounding him, and Damian had no desire to distress him.
The plan was simple:
Take care of Timothy without Timothy realizing it.
Without making him feel like a burden.
Without making him think it came from pity.
His willingness to get hurt and his habit of neglecting food and sleep were deeply concerning.
Hopefully, Timothy would allow Damian to remain by his side.
“Sure. Actually, I’d appreciate your help.”
Timothy filled another teacup and patted the couch beside him.
Damian released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
This was a good start.
A very good start.
⸻
Damian set aside his guilt to focus on something even more unsettling.
Timothy, unlike Damian, had never been indoctrinated by the League.
Yet somehow he had reached the conclusion that training was supposed to hurt.
Judging by everyone’s reactions, Damian wasn’t the only one who had been unaware of Timothy’s dangerous mindset.
If Timothy saw it as normal, then the belief must have been there from the very beginning.
Since he became Robin.
Father should have noticed.
Damian had always assumed Father personally trained Timothy, yet some of Timothy’s techniques resembled League teachings disturbingly closely.
Damian knew the League wasn’t responsible.
Looking at the man Timothy had become, Damian was absolutely certain Grandfather would never have allowed someone so capable and so loyal to simply leave.
It made no sense.
How had a child from Bristol ended up like this?
Had life itself treated Timothy as badly as Damian had?
Damian used to see an attack from a worthy opponent as acknowledgment of skill.
Never as affection.
He needed to change the way Timothy thought before their family lost him for good.
⸻
Timothy eagerly waited for Damian to taste the tea.
Damian took a sip.
Then paused.
His face twisted as he debated whether swallowing was wise.
Looking at Timothy, he relaxed slightly.
He trusted his brother.
Besides, it probably wouldn’t kill him.
Then another realization struck him.
Half the teapot was already empty.
“Timothy!”
“What does it taste like?”
Timothy had the audacity to ask.
Damian sincerely hoped it wasn’t what he thought.
“Lily of the valley?”
A poison derived from a highly toxic plant capable of causing cardiac arrest.
Timothy appeared fine, but symptoms could take one to two hours to appear.
⸻
“Right! I wasn’t sure. Having someone else’s input helps a lot.”
Tim looked delighted.
Only now did he notice Damian’s horrified expression.
“Timothy, are you willingly consuming poison?”
Damian had to know.
One simply could not trust Timothy with his own health.
“Oh shit, context! Right, you need context!”
Tim nearly dropped his cup in panic.
Did Damian think Tim was trying to poison him?
“I’ve been trying to replicate the taste of various poisons so I can teach the Titans how to recognize possible poisoning.”
He gestured animatedly.
“Some of them are the kind where if you can taste it, it’s already too late. But they’re metas, so who knows if things work the same way for them.”
Damian visibly relaxed.
“At the moment I’m working from memory, and it’s been years, so having you recognize it means I remembered correctly.”
He smiled proudly.
“This one is a success.”
“I used to practice mithridatism when I was younger, but it’s been so long I’d basically have to start over from scratch, so I’ve been putting it off.”
Tim shrugged casually.
As though he had merely been asked whether he liked spicy food.
“If you ever start again, I demand to be informed.”
It sounded like order, but was clearly a request.
Dami was adorable when he worried.
Dick had clearly been a good influence.
“Sure.”
He took another sip.
“Now, want to help me figure out how to imitate the taste of hemlock?”
Damian had not expected to bond with his brother over poison tasting.
Yet somehow...
It was significantly more enjoyable than anticipated.