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Damian is sick and tired of being told to ‘make an effort’ with Timothy Drake.
It seems like the only thing that anyone ever says to him anymore, and it drives Damian mad because he doesn’t quite know what it even means.
As far as he can tell, he has been making an effort. When he’d said as much to Richard, the man had thrown back his head and sighed.
“A positive effort, Damian. Say something nice to him for once. Make him breakfast or something, I don’t know, but you two can’t spend the rest of your lives at each other’s throats.”
Damian wonders if Drake had been told to make an effort with him. It seems unlikely.
Still, when Damian enters the Cave to see Drake curled up in front of the Batcomputer, Damian takes a deep breath, steels his resolve, and marches over.
There are a pair of headphones covering Drake’s ears, and Damian can hear the music blasting as he approaches. His head bobs along with the rhythm, and Damian knows that if he tries to touch Drake like this, he’s going to end up on his back with an arm across his throat, so he wads up a piece of paper and throws it at the back of his head.
“Jesus fuck.” Drake spins around furiously. “Can I help you?”
“I want to spar.”
It had seemed like the best course of action. Drake won’t sit through a conversation with him, and Damian doesn’t really know what they would talk about anyway. There is only so much that their cases overlap, and without another person to act as a buffer, Damian is sure that whatever conversation he tries to start will only end in a screaming match.
Damian had loved sparring with his mother. There was so much more to be said with the elegant exchange of blows than there was with the often clumsy words that Damian would find himself stumbling over. Things had always seemed simpler on the mats, and those lazy spars are some of his fondest memories of his mother. It stands to reason that he will enjoy sparring with Drake as well.
“Go ask Bruce. I’m busy.”
“You are playing Minecraft on the Batcomputer.”
“Exactly. Now shoo.”
Damian huffs. He wants to walk away and leave Drake to his game, but Richard is coming for dinner, and Damian wants to show him that he is capable of getting along with his brother.
“Please.” Damian does not beg, but it’s a near thing. “I want to practice against your staff. You are…a good opponent. I’ve watched you with Richard, and I would like to try. Please.”
He smiles, although based on Drake’s reaction, it must look more like a grimace. But, to Damian’s surprise, Drake shuts down the computer, tosses his headphones to the side, and goes to stretch.
Drake stretches like Richard does, and the sight makes jealousy curl vicious and ugly in the pit of Damian’s stomach. He ignores it, because he’s supposed to be enjoying this, and goes over to grab a sword.
“You’re not going to use a staff?”
“No,” Damian replies. “I am not proficient enough to be of any use to you with a staff. If this is to be a worthwhile exercise, I will be better off with a weapon I am more comfortable with.”
Drake just shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He spins the staff with dizzying speed, then falls into a low stance and gestures for Damian to take the first hit.
He would have been a fool to underestimate Drake; this boy has been training with Batman for years, and although he is many, many things, a poor fighter is not one of them. Damian does not let himself relax the way he had used to with his mother. He had known her fighting style as intimately as his own, and her moves never came as a surprise. They were not easy to block, and their impact would often leave him gasping for breath, but they had not been unpredictable.
Drake, however, is impossible to predict. He moves with Nightwing’s fluidity, strikes with Batman’s strength, blocks with the League’s unflinching resolve. He is a worthy challenge, and Damian feels himself starting to grin as they exchange blows.
“Easy,” Drake warns when Damian goes to duck beneath his staff and plant a kick to his sternum. “I’ll hurt you if you do that again.”
“Oh, please, like you could ever hurt me.”
Drake taps his staff against the mat three times. It’s the signal for the spar to end, something Bruce has drilled into them over and over, and Damian pulls back.
“There’s more momentum to this than a sword,” Drake explains. “When I swing, I can’t stop it as easily. If you’d pulled that move, I could have broken your jaw.”
“Show me.”
He doesn’t actually expect Drake to listen, but the older boy demonstrates the motion with uncharacteristic patience, and Damian’s cheeks flush when he realizes that Drake is right.
“I see.”
“Come on, then. That was barely a warm up.”
They continue fighting, and Damian finds that he does not mind listening to Drake’s advice. He knows how the League fights, understands how Damian has been trained, and he talks as he moves, a constant chatter that would usually make Damian’s blood boil.
There is the slightest opening in Drake’s guard, and Damian’s eyes narrow. There is a move that he has been practicing with his father, and he wonders how Drake will block it.
He lunges, using the flat of his sword to bat Drake’s staff out of the way before he turns to press his back against Drake’s chest and flip him onto the mats. At least, that’s how it should have worked. Damian was still getting used to throwing around the weight of someone twice his size, but Drake seems heavier than he should, so Damian yanks, wondering why Drake isn’t just following through with the move, and then he hears something snap.
Drake howls in pain, and Damian’s vision goes spotty when he sees that Drake’s ankle is now bent in the wrong direction.
“Oh no,” Damian whispers. He tries to figure out how he could have done this, when he realizes that the reason Drake hadn’t just let himself be flipped was because Damian had knocked his staff in the way of his feet. When Damian had pulled on him, he had had nowhere to go, and Damian had yanked anyway.
“Get Bruce.” Drake presses his forehead against the mats and whines high in the back of his throat as he reaches for his leg.
“Timothy, I didn’t mean for-”
The slap sends Damian stumbling, and he clutches his cheek as he blinks stars from his eyes.
Drake’s expression is furious despite the way he is curled up in pain, and he is still holding his hand aloft. “Get. Bruce.”
Damian does not try to approach Drake again. He runs over to the computer and pushes the button that will call Bruce down to the Cave, then he flees.
Father’s wrath will be vicious, and Damian knows it is childish to go and hide, but he doesn’t want to sit in the Cave and hear Drake blame him either.
And he knows Drake will blame him. Never mind that it had been an accident, and that, despite the animosity that still lingers between them, Damian would never hurt Drake like that now. It is going to be Drake’s word against Damian, and Damian knows who Bruce is going to believe.
He calls Richard with shaking fingers, and each ring of the dial tone sends him into even more of a panic.
“Hey, Dami, what’s-”
“I broke Timothy’s ankle.”
Silence. Then, “You did what?”
“We were sparring,” Damian explains breathlessly. “You told me to make an effort, and I was trying, I promise, but then I did a move that Father taught me incorrectly, and now his ankle is pointing backwards, and he’s never going to talk to me ever again.”
“Okay, okay, slow down, Damian.” Richard’s voice never fails to calm Damian’s racing heart, and he breathes shakily. “Tell me what happened, but slowly.”
By the time he is finished explaining, Damian is no longer panicking, but the shame remains. He should be better than this.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Richard promises. “I’ll call Bruce and explain, okay? You just stay in your room and wait for me to get there. It was just an accident, Damian. We’ve all had them on the mats. Tim will understand.”
In the bathroom mirror, Damian examines the handmark that stands out against his skin and doubts that Drake is in the mood to be understanding.
He had not been expecting a one-off spar to fix their relationship, but Damian had thought it was going well. When he’d blocked a swing of the staff, Drake had actually smiled as he’d nodded in approval, and Damian had thought that maybe this would be enough of a start.
And then, as per usual, he had gone and ruined it.
The space beneath his bed is comfortably dark, and Damian curls up there to wait for Richard. When the man does arrive, he slips under the bed next to Damian without a word.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“It was an accident.”
“I know.”
“He’s going to hate me anyway. Even more than he already does.”
“He doesn’t hate you.”
“Don’t lie!” Damian rolls over and presses his forehead against Richard’s shoulder. “I have ruined any chance of building a relationship with Drake, and he is never going to speak to me again.”
“Damian, it’s going to be okay.”
“I broke his ankle. His foot was pointing backwards, Richard, it was horrible. I’ve never heard him scream like that. And I did that to him.”
Richard begins to talk, but Damian just tunes him out. His words are pointless; Damian knows that they are only meant to make him feel better. They will do nothing to fix Drake’s ankle or the damage to their relationship that this has caused. Damian closes his eyes and does his best not to cry.
He doesn’t know how long they stay under the bed before Richard pulls him out so that they can go and eat dinner. The press of his lips against Damian’s forehead is soft, and then he tugs Damian along to the dining room.
The sound of crutches announces Drake’s arrival, and Damian winces when he sees the white cast wrapped around his ankle. He looks paler than usual, and Father stands behind him, hands hovering as Drake stumbles into his chair.
“Oh, great, Dick’s here,” Drake snaps. “Have you come to take his side as per fucking usual?”
“Okay, Tim, ease up.” Richard holds out his hands in a placating gesture, and Drake flips him off in return. “I’m not taking anyone’s side.”
“Bullshit. He’s gone and spun some lie about how it was only an accident, even though we all know he’s been trained better than that, and now you’re going to tell me to forgive him.” Drake crosses his arms. “How many more times is he going to get a free pass, Dick? How many more times does he have to hurt me before you actually give a shit?”
“That’s not fair, Tim.”
“No, what’s not fair is the fact that I have a broken ankle, and my asshole older brother doesn’t seem to care! The only thing you care about is the little monster who broke it.”
“It was an accident,” Damian interrupts because Richard looks like he’s going to cry. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You really expect me to believe that?” Drake huffs out a cruel laugh. “You know, I actually thought you wanted to spend time with me. Last time I ever make the mistake of trusting you.”
“I did want to spend time with you! I’m not lying!”
“Alright, that’s enough.” Father’s tone leaves no room for discussion, but Drake is on a warpath, and he slams his hands against the table as he stands.
“I’m going to eat upstairs.” Drake gathers his crutches and goes to leave, but then he stops in his tracks. He turns back to face Damian, and his lip curls when he says, “Ra’s would be so very proud of you, Damian.”
The table explodes into a cacophony of yelling, but Damian just bends his head and begins to eat. If he opens his mouth, he’s not sure if he will be able to stop himself from crying, and he has nothing to say to the people at the table.
They eat in silence. Richard only uses one hand to eat; the other settles on Damian’s forearm, and he rubs circles into Damian’s skin with his thumb. On any other day, the touch would bring comfort, but today all it does is turn Damian’s stomach. He is undeserving of such kindness, and he cannot bring himself to finish his food.
When he retires up to his bedroom, he pauses in front of Drake’s door. Opening it would be a spectacularly foolish idea, but Damian doesn’t know how else he is supposed to make an effort.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Drake sits on his bed, pillows piled beneath his bad foot, and he points a finger in Damian’s direction. “Get the hell out of my room.”
“No.” Damian crosses his arms. “I did not mean to hurt you. It was an accident.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not a liar!” It takes all of his self-control not to stamp his foot against the floor like a toddler. “Father has been teaching me that move. I did not realize that your staff had gotten in the way. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You snapped my ankle in half, you little bastard.”
“I didn’t mean to! Why won’t you believe me?”
“Why the hell should I?”
“Because I’m your brother.”
Tim’s mouth falls open into a small ‘o’ of surprise, and whatever he had been about to yell dies in his throat. Damian fidgets as Drake stares at him, and then the older boy sighs.
“Tell me what you were planning to do.”
Damian does. He goes into excruciating details because he knows Drake enjoys that sort of thing, and by the time he is finished, Drake is no longer frowning.
He pats the edge of the bed. “Come here, then,” he says quietly. When Damian tentatively sits down, he sighs again. “You should have been more careful. You should have known better than to try that with an unfamiliar partner and an unfamiliar weapon in the mix. You should have stopped when you understood that it wasn’t working like it should.”
“I know that, you-”
“I’m not finished.” Drake shakes his head. “You need to be more careful, because you’re strong, and you’re dangerous, and you’re very, very capable of hurting the people in this family. However, I shouldn’t have hit you like that. I should have listened to you the first time instead of being a brat. And I shouldn’t have brought up your grandfather. That was a shitty thing to do, and I’m sorry. You’re nothing like him.”
“Don’t be stupid, Drake, of course I’m like him.”
“No, you’re not. He wouldn’t be sitting here trying so hard to apologize.” The smile that Drake gives him is the soft one he reserves for Richard, and Damian shudders with relief. “Look, I don’t think I can forgive you yet because this thing really hurts, but maybe tomorrow things will be different.”
Damian stands. “I am going to get you some pain medication from the Cave.”
“Damian, there’s some in my nightstand. You don’t have to go-”
“I am going to get you medication from the Cave,” Damian continues, “and if I just so happen to bring up a few casefiles when I return, then perhaps you can look them over for me while you wait for the medication to kick in.”
Drake’s grin is blinding. “You know, now that you mention it, the meds in the Cave always seem to pack more of a punch.”
“That they do.”
Damian knows this will not fix much. But things will not get better unless Damian learns how to make more of an effort, and this seems like a good enough place to start.