Chapter Text
The water was warm. Not scalding hot after a night in the Watchtower, and not cold water in the Cave’s showers. Just a warm, large bath of water. With purple foam and glitter. Damian hadn’t even known such a thing existed.
His own existence at that moment also seemed unrealistic. Too fragile, like bubbles that burst at the slightest touch. Blurred, like a reflection in a fogged‑up mirror.
He remembers the shrieking sense of danger, the way the familiar background itch turned into a burn, forcing him to turn around and step back from the commissioner’s body a few seconds before the heavy hand descended on his head. It didn’t help him at all — a moment later small shadow that no one had noticed deprived him of mobility by some special technique.
The boy — his age, perhaps? a little younger? He was taller than Damian, but smaller — dragged his body aside and joined the fight, reducing the Father’s chances to a minimum, although at that moment Damian didn’t realize it. In his eyes — and in the eyes of the entire city, if not the entire world — Batman was an insurmountable force, an unbearable burden, an invincible monster that no weapon, no magic, nor love and faith could stand against. Damian’s family had proven that by their own example.
Batman was the embodiment of terror and power, but here he is, laying unconscious, paralyzed, bleeding on the floor. Damian looked at his Father, not understanding why he wouldn’t get up and punish the intruders for their invasion. His chest rose and fell, but there was nothing else he could do.
The other Batman noticed him — or, rather, paid attention, because Batman always notices everything — and Damian tried to get up, even if only to his knees, because he knew Batman liked to see him on his knees, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even keep his head lifted long enough to avoid looking up at Batman challengingly. Challenging Batman was like a death sentence.
"Can you speak?"
Damian nods — testing, trying to stretch his neck. Then he replies out loud, hoping he won’t get punched in the jaw for being slow.
"Yes, sir."
"Your name?"
“Damian Wayne, sir.”
Batman casts a quick glance at Father — Damian doesn’t know why. It’s unlikely that there could be any more Waynes in this estate, right? Although perhaps that boy —
"What's your connection to him?"
"I am his Shadow"
Sometimes, when Damian could slip out of his father’s firm grip long enough to go down to the Cave, he would hide in the shadows, watching the boys interact with each other in their cell. They had few belongings and too much free time, so they were resourceful. He liked to see them... happy, as happy as such an existence could be.
Damian wished that the Shadow was limited to this — to peacefully observe from the shadows of how people live their lives. Regretfully, he was the shadow of Batman — a monster that sought to drown this miserable city in darkness and blood. He knows what that makes him.
Judging by the clenched jaw, the person in front of him understands this as well.
Batman silently walks away toward the medical bay.
Instead, a small shadow is approaching Damian. The boy is dressed rather brightly, compared to the costumes Damian is used to. He’s wearing black and red, with yellow accents and the lining of his cloak. It’s quite noticeable in the dark. Although maybe that was the point. Maybe it was an element of intimidation. Batman understood this better — Damian lacked the desire and determination to become a real nightmare.
The boy knelt down to handcuff him — which seemed unnecessary, given that he could barely keep his head up — and check his pupils. His hands were blissfully free of blood. Damian couldn’t help but be surprised by this.
“I’ll take the mask off you, okay? Don’t move.”
If he had had the strength, he would have nodded, but he didn’t. Damian could only watch with bated breath as the stranger took a tube from his belt — similar to the one they used — and treated the edges of his mask, removing it with unexpected care. Neither Damian nor the Father had ever bothered with such things.
It took him a few seconds of blinking to get used to the changed lighting, so when Damian saw the face, he didn’t understand what the person in front of him was feeling, but he knew it didn’t bode well for him.
The boy sighed, turning away from him and still holding the Shadow mask in his hands. He looked carefully focused and indifferent. Damian didn’t know whether he was angry, frightened, or sad, but it didn’t matter to him. He tried not to show his own fear, because in that side—
“Batman? B, have you checked the cameras? It seems like someone’s there.”
...were hidden kids
Batman muttered something Damian didn’t hear as he finished bandaging the commissioner’s arm. It was pointless — the man would lose the limb anyway, but it gave him a few much‑needed seconds to make a dash. The boy looked predictably tense when Damian grabbed his arm, but he didn’t reach for his weapon.
“N-no... don’t.”
The boy raised an eyebrow. Batman was walking toward the door. Damian tried to breathe through his nose, tried to suppress the nausea of anxiety, tried, tried so hard just to get it over with. He had only one chance. Just one request.
“They...they’re just...kids.”
He didn’t make it in time. Batman made a wounded sound and flung open the door of the cell where Jason and Dickie were sleeping. From his place, Damian could only watch in pain as he reached out to them with his huge, heavy arms.
“Bruce, step aside, you’ll scare them.”
Batman made another wistful sound that Damian had never heard from his Father, but he allowed his assistant to push him away. He didn’t move far, guarding the entrance to the cell and casting glances full of hatred alternately at the Father and Damian.
He could barely understand the reason for this hatred. Did he find it repugnant how the Father treated his toys? Did he like them and was he offended that someone had gotten to them first? Perhaps his own versions had already died from exhaustion and injuries, and he was hoping to find healthier ones here that would last longer?
Damian didn’t know and didn’t want to know, even though he needed to. He needed to understand their motives and goals, their characters, habits, tastes and desires. He had to know how to make himself useful. How to ensure the boys’ safety. How to gain the power to stand up for them when one of them inevitably stumbled, too young to fully understand the rules of this mad game.
Damian didn’t hear it, but someone must have called for help, because the next second Superman walked through the portal behind him. Just the sight of the alien, combined with his own helplessness, made something inside Damian freeze, but the Man of Steel simply ignored him.
Instead, he headed for the cameras.
Damian knew it was foolish. Pointless and fraught with consequences. Serious consequences for all of them. But he simply couldn’t stand by and watch as this madman— as he was—
"Wait!"
Only the boy turned around. Obviously, Damian wasn’t strong enough even to shout. Or maybe the other two simply ignored his cries. That wouldn’t be the first time.
Batman lifted Jason and Dickie, passing the younger one into Superman’s arms. They both looked tense; Dick was on the verge of tears, though he held them back with dignity, and Jason clenched his fists, as he did when he wanted to snap at the Father, but understood that it would end in disaster. Damian had to teach him to keep quiet.
“Are there any other children? Where is Tim? Duke? The girls?”
Damian bit his tongue, trying to ground himself in the pain. One mistake, and Tim might face certain death. He doesn’t know what this Batman is going to do with the boys — what if he just finishes him off, considering him too broken?
But if not— if he decides to keep them and Damian stays silent, Tim will simply die alone.
“Bruce Wayne never had any ward girls, thank God. I’ve never even heard of Duke either.” The commissioner, whom Damian had already forgotten about, spoke up, limping out of the medical bay. His right arm hung limply. “What are you going to do with these children?”
“I have five adopted sons and a daughter. I will take care of them, and if I can’t, I have a friend who helps traumatized orphans find a loving family.”
Damian almost wanted to laugh at that, but no one was paying any attention to him. The commissioner turned to Superman, as if asking for his comment, and that elicited a couple of chuckles from him. As if— as if Superman was in any way better. The fact that, instead of slowly dismembering people, he preferred to crush their skulls didn’t make him any more righteous.
Although he admitted reluctantly, that ridiculous red‑and‑blue suit was amusing. It even had a certain charm, if Superman hadn’t turned out to be a vile, xenophobic bastard with megalomania and a desire to “procreate a new, perfect species.”
“He’s telling the truth, but if you’re worried, you can come with us. Our Gotham has its own Commissioner Gordon, but good police officers are always appreciated.”
Gordon shook his head, leaning on the operating table that was supposed to be his final resting place. What irony.
“I have a lot of my own matters to attend to here, although there will be fewer of them now that Batman is out of the game.” Gordon spat out the remaining blood, and the boy reached into his belt for water, which the man gratefully accepted. Suddenly, his attention turned to Damian.
“What are you going to do with him?”
The silence was so profound that one could only hear the Father’s hoarse, strained breathing. Damian closed his eyes. At least his boys might get a chance at something good. If what Batman had said was true, of course.
“We don’t know how much this Batman has corrupted him. He could be dangerous to other children.”
“Hmm, he really did follow Batman around like a little obedient Shadow, but I think-”
“Upstairs. In the main bedroom. Tim is there, he–”
Damian didn’t want to hear what lie the commissioner was going to come up with to soften his image in Batman’s eyes. He didn’t want the disappointment and anger that would follow the revelation of the truth. No one could uncover secrets like Batman.
Superman didn’t even seem to need a command — he handed Dick, who was dozing from fatigue, back into Batman’s arms and flew upstairs to the estate, punching a hole where the family clock had stood. For some reason, the thought of losing it made Damian feel an irrational sadness.
"He's coming with me."
The voice was firm, implying that refusal was not an option. That this wasn’t a request, but merely stating a fact that you wouldn’t argue with. Damian was used to hearing that tone from three specific people in his life, and he didn’t realize it wasn’t the Father’s voice until another Batman objected.
"Robin"
“You don’t want to deal with him because of the kids anyway, and I’m not going to leave him here. The local League will soon find out about Batman’s disappear — and then what will happen to him?”
“I know about your history with... Robin, but you need to realize that these are different people. He’s dangerous — not just to them, but to you as well.”
Robin, who had already reached out to help him to his feet, froze. He got up, fixing his gaze on Batman — a gaze that Damian couldn’t see from that angle. But he could see the Father’s face, familiar to the very last eyelash, and it expressed... regret, mixed with resignation. It was a strange combination, one that Damian had seen only once, when he had thrown the last handful of earth onto the grave in the garden.
“I’m offended by your assumption that I wouldn’t be able to handle him, especially given our history.”
If Damian ever responded to his elders with that much sarcasm, he would spend several hours on his knees in the rite with his mother, and with his father — he no longer wants to think about kneeling.
Robin was surprisingly strong, or perhaps Damian was simply much more fragile than he felt, but it didn’t take him much effort to take on most of his weight. Damian tried to walk on his own as best he could, but it seemed he was only getting in the way. Robin said nothing.
And so they left. Superman crossed the portal first, carrying Tim to the medical bay — in this Cave, it was the same place, but much larger. Even from here, it was clear that the equipment there was more numerous and of higher quality. It would have been an interesting change if Damian had had any strength left to think about it.
Robin leads him at a slow but swift pace until they reach the bench between the showers and the garage. From there, he can see the medical bay, and he manages to catch a glimpse of Jason’s hair before Robin blocks his view.
“Do you have any injuries that require immediate treatment?”
Damian shakes his head. His neck feels strained, as if he’s spent an hour in his pajamas in the harbor, but he can’t find the words. He clenches his hands, which are at his sides, trying to assess the mobility of his fingers. If they want him to do something tonight he’ll have to make an effort to prove his worth. Damian can’t afford to go back. He won’t survive it.
Robin doesn’t look satisfied with his answer. He turns toward the medical bay for a moment, where the girl — even more petite than he is — has gone down, and then once again pins Damian down with the full weight of his attentive gaze.
“Report all your current injuries.”
His tongue feels like stone in his mouth, and the slowly subsiding paralysis makes it hard to assess his condition, but an order is an order. Damian forces himself to point to the junction of the neck and shoulder, to the neck, lowering his hand to the solar plexus. “Bruises.” He lowers his hand back to his knee and stretches out his leg, turning it toward the light and not wincing at the dulled pain. “Ankle sprain.”
Robin continues to look at him appraisingly, and Damian tries to recall everything that happened in the last week, everything that might be important. He’s in uniform, so he can’t be exposed right now, but it would be easy for Robin to take the uniform off him right here. The Cave has everything he needs. After all, they’ll have to conduct a medical examination and make sure he’s fit for work.
Work. Damian blinks, remembering how he distracted Father while he was working on the documents, and tries to stretch his right shoulder. He looks up, swallowing the dryness in his mouth. “A dislocation, maybe. I’m not sure.” The chase after Gordon all over the city had completely worn him out, and the adrenaline washed away all thoughts of the single significant injury. After all, if he couldn’t fight, Father would have made Tim go out into the field.
Tim would have died.
Robin doesn’t tut, doesn’t frown, doesn’t sigh. He nods briefly, taking a small box from his belt — it looks more like a box of children’s juice — and places it in Damian’s hands. “Drink it. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere, don’t touch anything, and shout if you feel worse.”
He lowers his head. This would have been a good opportunity to assess the battlefield, gather information about the location, and understand the possible characteristics of the new owner, but Damian didn’t have the strength to endure the punishment that would follow the spying. He just hoped that Tim would do better and wouldn’t get caught. He and Dick had always been good at staying out of sight.
Three minutes passed, or five, or ten. Damian finished drinking the liquid, which really did taste like juice, and absently chewed on the straw. It was surprisingly hard. Probably another of Batman’s devices. Damian lowered his head even further so that no one could read this thought on his face.
He heard Robin shouting something at Batman as he headed toward him, but the words made no sense. They didn’t matter. Robin came up and asked him a question, but Damian could only nod. The sounds drifted past him; all he could hear was the distant creaking of bats and the rustling of the box in his hands. Robin fell silent, looking at him, and then sighed and pulled him by the hand, leading them toward the garage. Good. So they were leaving.
Damian cast one last conscious glance in the direction of the medical bay, taking advantage of Robin’s distraction. Tim was still unconscious. Jason was sitting next to him on a chair, holding the chalk‑white boy’s hand, and, judging by the movement of his lips, he was telling him something. Knowing Jason, he was retelling to his brother one of the books they had both read dozens of times. Dick had fallen asleep, huddled into a ball in the corner of the couch. He was wearing a blue blanket that looked soft. Batman was standing in the corner of the room, examining the monitors displaying Tim’s readings, and every few seconds he would turn toward the children for a moment, as if he was afraid they would run away.
No. As if he was afraid they would disappear. Damian knew this body language. The way Batman tried to hold himself steady and unshakable because there were others in the room, but in the end, his back would bend, his hands would clench, his shoulders would rise. In the end, he was just a man.
At that moment, Batman looked more like Damian than the Father. No, rather... Batman looked more like dad than Damian's Father from the very first seconds of his appearance in Nanda Parbat.
Robin turned around, holding out the motorcycle helmet, and Damian tried to put it on with clumsy fingers. His thoughts slipped away like sand through his fingers. He no longer needed to protect anyone. He no longer needed to endure the pain. These children could be safe without him. They no longer needed him.
Damian hoped that Tim would be able to forgive him. The boy had always been too sentimental. He preferred to endure the pain together rather than run away alone.
In the end, it hurt everyone.
He gets out of the bath, wrapping himself in the fluffy, huge towel that was given to him, and tries to wash the foam and glitter off the walls without dropping it. It turns out to be harder than he expected. His coordination has truly dropped to a frightening level.
Once he’s done, he turns to the wardrobe, which, as he’s been told, contains clothes. There’s too much clothing for one person. He sees several pairs of pants, some of which are too big even for him — and Robin is smaller. There’s a women’s top and even children’s shorts. Damian isn’t used to such variety. He has no idea what’s expected of him.
He must have stood there in a daze for long enough, because there’s a light knock at the door and a voice — calm and patient, as if Damian hadn’t wasted so much time and hot water — Robin’s.
“You can take anything you find comfortable enough. No one will mind lending you clothes, we often leave them with each other or swap them. Everything’s fine.”
He didn’t even think about the possibility that others might have voluntarily left their belongings here. That would be foolish and dangerous. And expensive. How generous was this Batman that his toys could just drop their things somewhere? Or, on the contrary, was he so stingy that they had to share? The father never gave the kids too many things, treating every little thing as a gift that had to be earned, but they never had to share clothes. Each of them had their own costume that Batman preferred to see them in.
Damian tried to push those thoughts away. Right now it wouldn’t help him at all. He chooses gray pants in his size and a dark long‑sleeved turtleneck. It’s tight enough to feel familiar, but not intimidating. The fabric is softer than he’s used to and smells like floral conditioner.
Coming out of the bath, Damian freezes by the door, unsure where to go until he notices the owner of the place in the kitchen. The Nest, as Robin called it, is mostly an open space with too much visibility. It’s unfamiliar and disorienting. He’s used to the long corridors of the estate, the walls that are too close and the low ceilings of the chamber, the dark corners of the Watchtower. There’s too much light and space here.
Robin is rustling around in the kitchen, and the electric kettle is boiling while he makes a peanut butter sandwich. His hair is wet and curly, and Damian feels a weight in his stomach at the thought that he made the owner of the space take a shower in the non‑owner’s bathroom. There are a dozen small plates and a bowl of fruit on the table. Damian sits down uncertainly after Robin waves his hand toward the sofa.
“I didn’t want to make assumptions about your tastes, so I chose European cuisine, and I wasn’t sure how much you’d be able to eat, so there are soups. You can take whatever you want, in any quantity,” he gestures at the table as he sits down opposite you, holding a glass of juice. In the center of the table stands a carafe of the same juice. “There are no wrong options.”
When Damian doesn’t move for two minutes, Robin sighs and shakes out his damp fringe. “Okay, I get it. I’ll go first, and you can take whatever you want from what’s left — is that okay?”
Damian nods subtly, uncertain, but Robin just smiles just as subtly and pulls a plate with noodles and breaded boiled fish toward himself. Damian casts a few furtive glances in his direction, but when Robin says nothing and doesn’t react, he cautiously reaches for the rice soup. Nothing happens.
The soup is warm and feels pleasantly heavy in the stomach. The bread seems unfamiliar, and Damian isn’t sure whether some other grain crop is growing in this world, or if he’s just not eaten fresh bread in so long. There was no personal cook at the estate; Father ate in the canteen of his office or in restaurants under the Wayne roof, and brought home whatever was left over. It was decent food, but it always had a taste of ash — or, rather, of the raw earth — from the cook who was no longer in his life.
Damian tries not to eat too quickly so as not to finish before Robin. He doesn’t savor the food the way rich kids do at parties, but he doesn’t eat like someone for whom every second counts. He takes small sips and chews slowly, not even touching the bread. Perhaps his soup is more filling than Damian’s. Perhaps he has food issues. Both options are possible.
Robin finishes his soup right from the bowl and puts both dishes in the sink, then returns to the table with the teapot in hand and pours tea into the empty glass next to Damian — tea that smells of herbs. Once upon a time Damian could have named all of them just by their scent.
“There’s mint, lemon balm, and thyme. I hope you don’t mind. This should help you sleep better in a new place.”
This explains the soothing scent. This doesn’t explain why Robin wants him to sleep peacefully. Damian wouldn’t have resisted — hadn’t he made that obvious enough? Or perhaps they liked it when their toys were unconscious. Maybe it was easier that way.
He still drinks his tea, trying to take small, frequent sips so as not to burn himself, but also not to dawdle. Robin stirs two spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup. He looks thoughtful. When Damian puts the empty cup back on the table, he leans back in his chair, and Damian straightens up. It’s a familiar scene.
“Okay, I suppose we need to discuss some rules out loud to avoid any misunderstandings. I don’t want another knife in the liver because my newbie doesn’t know that you can’t kill someone who is higher in rank.”
Damian nods in response to the first half of the phrase and hides the tremor caused by the second half. He doesn’t want to think about what punishment followed such an action.
“Well, the very first and most basic rule is that we don’t use violence in this house. Not in this house specifically,” he gestures with his hand, indicating the space around them, “but in this family. In this community. Unless it’s self‑defense, you’re not allowed to harm anyone. And you’re not allowed to provoke them so that they attack first and you can ‘defend’ yourself. Got it?”
Damian nods, wondering what incident could have led to such a clarification. How many incidents. His Father often teased Jason until his lip or fists started to tremble, and then he would revel in the opportunity to punish him for losing his temper. Damian hopes that the same rules apply to children, and they will be able to be... at least somewhat protected from such treatment.
A keen look and a light tap on the table abruptly bring him back to the conversation.
“The same applies to punishments. We don’t inflict pain for breaking the rules; you won’t face violence. If you make a mistake, unless it’s a deliberate and consistent violation of some specific rule — like, for example, picking the damn locks to my room at four in the morning for the fifth day in a row,” Robin sounds so irritated that Damian pulls the sleeves of his turtleneck down to hide his wrist. He’s not sure whether this gesture went unnoticed. “Then we’ll just give you a talking‑to and discuss how to prevent the situation from happening again. No one will harm you, I promise. Is that clear?”
Damian nods, too hastily, without the necessary grace, but a question rings like a bell in his chest. He raises his hand, which going numb, trying not to let his voice tremble: “May I ask a question, sir?”
“Yes, of course. This, by the way, is the third rule: you can ask any question at any time, including waking me up in the middle of the night, but please don’t do that too often — Dick will kill me for the ongoing lack of sleep. But, in general, yes, you can ask any number of questions, including those that seem silly or insignificant to you — if you need an answer, just ask. I won’t promise to answer, because it might be confidential information or I might simply not know the answer, but you can still ask.” He sneezes and takes a sharp breath to catch his breath after this short monologue. Damian takes advantage of his distraction to restore the sleeves to their previous state. “Ahem, yes, so what was your question?”
“Do the same rules apply to... to the children Batman has taken?”
Robin looks at him for a few seconds — confused, thoughtful, or assessing. Damian finds it hard to read him yet. But after that time passes, he sighs and lowers his head, and a slightly sad smile plays on his lips. Damian recognizes it. It’s sympathy.
“I can’t say that these will be the same wording, because we don’t have a written charter, but yes, it will be in the same vein. No one will hurt you for making mistakes or violating the rules; you’re free to ask and request anything you need, just don’t harm others.”
Damian looked at his bare wrists again. They were paler than they had been in childhood. Gotham didn’t get much sun, and even when it did, they weren’t allowed to spend much time outdoors. There was a garden on the estate. Would the kids be allowed to play there? Was there that bush of Chinese roses that, according to stories, his grandmother had loved so much? Was there an ineptly made grave next to that bush, dug by a child?
Robin poured him some more tea and to himself some juice. He was chewing on some cookies that looked too cheap against the backdrop of such luxurious living space. Damian had only seen anything like this in 24‑hour convenience stores, when he and Batman had watched as they were being robbed.
“Okay, those were the general concepts, and now something more specific, in terms of the little details. You’ll be living on this floor, I’ll be sleeping on the upper floor and coming down to you. That was a requirement from my family, but I’ll see what can be done about it once you get settled.” Robin looked... tense, as if he was both sleepy and full of energy. His knee was trembling under the table. “You are not allowed to leave this building except in emergency cases until I, Batman, or Nightwing give you permission, and until I make the necessary documents for you. By the way, regarding the documents, do you have a preference for a false name?”
The knee stopped twitching. Damian uncertainly raised his gaze from it to the other person’s face.
"False name?"
“Yeah. Unfortunately, we can’t call you Damian Wayne, because that one already exists and is widely known. You know, you can be Wayne; we can present you as Dami’s cousin, but I’ll understand if you don’t want to have any ties to that family. Maybe al Ghul? Ibn al Xu'ffasch? Those are two other surnames Dami has, but, again, if you want to start with a completely new slate, I’ll understand, and we’ll arrange everything.
Damian didn’t know what to say. What to feel. What to think. His mind was a completely blank slate. An endless white canvas.
“I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t understand.”
Robin’s leg twitched again. He let out a sigh, which turned into a yawn, and then into a sneeze. He sneezed like a kitten. Damian restrained himself from wishing him good health. Instead, he took another sip of tea.
“Sorry, I’m going too far, am I? I’ve overwhelmed you with all this information. Okay, never mind, we’ll deal with it later. I don’t think you’ll have any reason to go outside anytime soon anyway.” That’s true. Batman is unlikely to let him out of his sight. “I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge; you can take them whenever you like. Breakfast will probably be delivered. Pancakes from Alfie — did your Alfred make pancakes?” Are they better than his waffles? Our Alfred can’t make waffles, but don’t tell him that — it’s a very sensitive topic. But, anyway, most likely there’ll be a mountain of containers here tomorrow. Alf always cooks like it’s for a company of soldiers when Bruce brings new kids home. It’s his way of keeping things under control. I forgot to ask — do you have any food preferences? You don’t have to have any, of course, given the circumstances… It’s just that if not, then Alfred will most likely cook according to Dami’s habits, and he’s become a vegetarian. That’s how we ended up with our own cow. It’s called Bat Cow, which is just hilarious because the little demon mocked all of us for our “stupid, ineffective, and ridiculous names,” and then he named his cow that.” Robin yawned again and threw his head back. “Fuck. I talk too much. Sorry, baby, it’s the adrenaline."
Damian didn’t know how to express that everything was fine, because nothing was fine. He wasn’t fine. It was too much — too much of everything. He couldn’t even begin to make sense of it.
“Mr... Robin, sir, may I... could you show me to my room?”
Robin looked at him in bewilderment, but immediately got up and walked away without even looking back. His gait became more stiff, his shoulders slumped.
"You didn't recognize me?"
How Damian could? They were the same icy‑blue intelligent eyes, the polite, gentle smile that could calm even Batman, the commanding tone he had inherited from his battle mother, and the habit of being talkative from his father. The slender wrists that looked so fragile. Damian couldn’t reconcile his Tim — tiny, brilliant, and so weary — with this slender yet well‑built young man, but he couldn’t deny their resemblance. Robin turned around, stopping by the door, and in his blue eyes there was a familiar comfort and understanding, and behind them, far away, where calculation and suppressed emotions hid, there was a gentle light of love. Tim couldn’t help falling in love at first sight. It was his main weakness, even worse than curiosity.
“I’m Tim Jackson Drake‑Wayne. Your youngest older brother.”
Tim extended his hand to him — for a handshake, Damian thought, but instead, he was pulled closer for a few seconds, pressed against other's chest, held by a small hand on his back, and then released. It lasted so briefly that he didn’t have time to be scared. He didn’t have the strength to be afraid. It was Tim, and Tim was hugging him. Tim was older, but still shorter, and he was still smiling the same way. It was… just Tim.
“And I’m... Damian Wayne. Your... oldest younger brother.”
Tim smiled a little wider, much more joyfully — like the first time he smiled after his father's death, when Damian gave him a collection of detective stories, when Alfred was still making pancakes for breakfast, and there wasn’t a single mark on his pale neck. When Damian was his brother, but hadn’t yet become his overseer.
“Good night, Dami.”