Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Allergies in February were highly unlikely.

Damian had googled it.

Extensively. 

Unless Tim had somehow developed a dust or mold allergy completely randomly all this time after moving to NYC and their apartment, Tim was in denial.

That, or he was lying to Damian.  If that were the case, Damian wasn’t even sure what he’d do.  Tim was the only person on this stupid planet he trusted, and the thought that Tim would lie to him was not one he wanted to entertain.

No.  The idiot was just stupid. 

It was March now, and Tim had been coughing for five weeks.  And for the past couple weeks, he hadn’t been sleeping much at night.  Damian could hear loud and clear as he coughed right through the night. 

Damian had googled that, too.  It said if a cough lasted more than 2 weeks or so to see a doctor.

Telling Tim this resulted in an eye roll and an assurance that it was ‘just allergies.’

Timothy Drake was the dumbest, most stubborn 17-year-old in existence, of that, Damian had no doubt.

Now Tim was struggling to stop coughing for more than a minute at a time while he prepared dinner. Damian was a little concerned about that– the imbecile coughing all over his food.  But Tim had been pretty good about coughing into his elbow and away from the food.  Really, the severity of the cough was more alarming.

He couldn’t seem to catch his breath between coughs.  And Damian was tired of wasting his breath trying to get Tim to see a doctor.

Instead, he texted his friend Molly.  ‘My brother is an idiot.’

“Damn,” Tim panted after a particularly rough cough.  There was clearly something in his lungs.  Damian could hear it. There was no way the dumbass couldn’t feel it. 

As Damian's phone buzzed, he said flatly, “See a doctor.” 

‘What’s the matter?  Did he ground you??  xP’

Smiling slightly, Damian picked up the phone and texted back.  ‘No.  He’s got a respiratory infection and refuses to see a doctor.’ 

“I’m fine, Dames,” Tim wheezed as he leaned all his weight on his arms resting on the counter. 

“Obviously you aren’t,” he drawled as he sent another text.  ‘You should tell your father to yell at him for me. He won’t listen to me.’

“Hrmph,” Tim huffed, standing up straight again to go back to preparing dinner. 

Molly answered a minute later with, ‘Dad says he’s already lectured him about it.’

Damian was frowning at his phone when he heard the thump.  He looked up quickly and didn’t see Tim anywhere.  “Tim?” he said, climbing up a bit onto the counter to look over the island.

There, on the floor, was his older brother with blue lips and a pale face.

“Shit,” he swore, leaping over the counter and dialing 9-1-1 as he went, “You dumbass.”

To Damian’s utter relief, Tim had a pulse and was breathing.  Very raggedly, however. 

Damian hoisted Tim to a sitting position to help with his breathing, leaning him back against the cabinets as he rattled off their address and the basic description of Tim’s condition to the dispatcher. 

It took six minutes for EMTs to arrive at their door.

Six agonizing minutes, during which time Tim quit breathing three times. 

The first time it happened, Damian panicked.  Just a little, though. 

Okay. A lot. 

But it had only lasted a second or two, then Tim took a deep, ragged breath. 

All Damian could do was sit there, holding Tim upright. 

He was going to murder Tim when he got better.

Murder him.

Tim’s oxygen levels were at 86%.

Anything below 92% was dangerous and could cause permanent damage.  Damian had read that when researching pneumonia a few days before.

Tim was at 86%. 

The paramedics were quick to get him on oxygen and loaded into the ambulance once they saw that.  Not wanting to leave Damian alone in the apartment, they told him he could ride with them to the hospital where he could call someone. 

And that was the moment it really, truly sunk in what was happening.

Tim was dying.

He was dying. 

And he was all Damian had. Damian was just a kid, dammit.  He was twelve. 

Timothy Drake couldn’t just die.

Not like this.  Not in this stupid world, away from Father and Grayson and Pennyworth and everyone back home.  It’d been a bit over a year and a half since they’d been home. 

A year and a half and things had finally been looking up.  Damian had really been enjoying his life with Tim.  He still ached for home.  Longed to see his father and oldest brother, but he was content. 

What would happen to Damian if Tim died?  Where would he go? 

How would he recover?

Damian…

He…

“Dame-“ Tim croaked, snapping Damian out of his thoughts.

All Damian could do was glare.  But not even at Tim.  He couldn’t look at the blue-lipped, pale face of his older brother.  It made something deep in his chest hurt, and he didn’t like that feeling.  At all.

“Focus on breathing, Drake,” he said coldly.

He hatedDrake for doing this to him. 

Then, Tim had the gall to ask him, “What’s wrong?”  As if Damian wouldn’t be unsettled by Tim being taken to the hospital. As if his older brother actively dying wouldn’t be of concern to him.

Damian scoffed, staring straight ahead as he struggled with the overwhelming desire to just burst out into tears. 

Tears.

Damian Wayne did not cry.   

That’s all he wanted to do, however, as Tim coughed himself back into unconsciousness. 

Once they arrived at the hospital, Damian trailed behind the EMTs as they rushed Tim into a room.  He stood off in a corner, trying his best to stay completely out of the way so no one would kick him out.

He wanted to know what was going on. 

Being 12, he was well aware the doctors would try to shield him from the truth, and Damian did not want that. He needed to know what was happening to his guardian.

His dumbass, 17-year-old ‘guardian.’

Tim really needed Father. Damian realized that, now.  It wasn’t just this, it was random little things over the past year or so that showed Damian how much of a kid Tim still was, too. 

Little things, like his inability to balance his sleep schedule with his work load.  His tendency to doubt himself and his worth.  His desire for approval and praise.  The way he absolutely lit up when adults recognized his hard work, as if he were starved for positive attention. 

And, of course, this. Solid proof of his neglect of his health.  

Damian didn’t know how to fix any of it, because Damian wasn’t what Tim needed.  Tim needed an adult.    

Tim needed their father. 

“Young man,” an EMT said impatiently in Damian’s face, as if he’d been trying to get his attention for a bit, “your brother is asking for you.”

Damian snapped his attention back to Tim, who was struggling to pull himself up. 

That idiot. 

Was fighting the doctors. 

And trying to sit up.

He needed to let the doctors work.

“Drake,” Damian said coldly. The moron was going to make it worse. He could die.  Why didn’t he understand that? 

“Dam’n,” Tim mumbled, relaxing back against the bed. 

Damian scowled and, noticing the doctors had stepped back to let the two of them chat, demanded, “Fix him.” Tim needed help now.  It didn’t matter one iota what the moron wanted to say. 

“Dame,” Tim mumbled, patting Damian’s hand where he’d started gripping the side of the bed, “M’okay.”

“You’re an idiot is what you are,” Damian shot back.

The nurse began unbuttoning Tim’s shirt as he lay back, apparently content with being insulted. And that, more than anything that had happened that evening, scared Damian. Because Tim usually snipped back. Him not even reacting to the jibe was proof of how bad off he really was.

Damian was just about to go back to his corner to be forgotten when Tim suddenly sat up, startling the nurse.  “Paul,” Tim said urgently.

“What?” Damian asked as the doctor placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“Lay back down, son,” the doctor said, “you need to let the nurse get you changed and an IV inserted. Your oxygen levels are far too low, and–”

“Call ‘em,” Tim interrupted as he pulled his oxygen mask off.

Didn’t he just hear the doctor? 

But instead of listening, instead of letting the doctors fucking save him, he wanted Damian to call his boss. 

Damian scowled and swatted Tim’s hands away from the mask. “Stop touching that. You calling in sick for work is not important.”

“No,” Tim said desperately, as if they were going to be his last words and he needed Damian to understand them, “For you. Call him for you.”

Face pinched into something that he hoped resembled an angry scowl and not the devastated terror he felt deep within, Damian stepped back from the bed and crossed his arms.  Of course, he would have called Paul, eventually.  He probably would have called Molly, actually, and had her tell Paul, but whatever.  Same thing. The doctors weren’t going to just let him live in the hospital or go home to an empty apartment alone.  He wasn’t stupid.

Why did Tim have to waste his breath on such an obvious request?

He should have apologized. 

That’s what Damian deserved. A damned apology. 

Because Tim was dying and Damian had been telling him for a month something was wrong. 

“Honey,” a nurse said, placing a hand on Damian’s back to lead him out of the room, “let’s let the doctors work.” 

Damian reluctantly followed the woman’s lead out to a seating area that wasn’t the waiting room and sat down in a chair she motioned toward. 

“Does someone know you’re here?” the woman asked, taking a seat next to Damian.

Frowning now, Damian pulled out his cell phone and shook his head.  “Not yet.”

“Okay,” she said, standing up and patting Damian on the shoulder, “you go ahead and call whoever. We need an adult here for you.  Just wait here in the nurse’s station until they get here, okay?”

“Yeah,” Damian said, scrolling through his contacts to find Tim’s boss.

He pressed call and drew his legs up into the chair, hugging onto them with one arm and holding the phone to his ear with the other. 

“Hey Damian,” Paul said upon answering, “is everything okay?  Molly’s been a bit worried since you randomly stopped answering her texts.”

“Uh, yeah,” Damian rasped, then cleared his throat, “No.  I uh, Tim’s in the hospital.  They’re admitting him for low oxygen levels.  He collapsed and-”

“Which hospital?” Paul cut in, his voice laden with concern.

“Presbyterian,” Damian said, leaning his head down on his knees. 

“Okay, I’ll be there in 20 minutes, alright?” Paul said, and Damian could hear the rustling of Paul collecting up his stuff to leave, “just hang in there, kiddo.  Everything will be okay.” 

“Yeah,” Damian said doubtfully. 

Because it might not be alright.  Tim didn’t have a spleen.  He didn’t have a spleen, he was extremely ill, and now he was admitted to the hospital.

Where he could get any sort of infection.

Where he could get even sicker.

Where he could die. 

Damian sat his phone down next to him on the seat and hugged tightly to his legs. 

If Tim died, he really wasn’t sure what he would do.

He was really sick of people exiting his life. 

Chapter Text

Paul came as quickly as he promised, and helped Damian get information about his brother’s condition. 

The doctors got Tim hooked up to a ventilator to help keep him breathing, then did some bloodwork and a chest x-ray. 

Apparently.  The idiot had pneumonia.

Really bad pneumonia.

Shocker.  Damian could have told them that.

Damian kind of hated the doctor for dumbing down the diagnosis. But basically, the moron had let it get so bad that the infection spread to his blood. 

But they declared him ‘stable’ and encouraged Paul to take Damian home to get a good night’s rest.

Reluctantly, Damian followed Paul outside to his car and promptly ignored him the entire way to his and Tim’s apartment.  Because Paul was one of those people who liked to talk.  About feelings.  And Damian was having none of that. 

Paul followed Damian up to his apartment, annoyingly, while Damian went to pack a bag. 

Carrie meowed frustratedly at Damian when he pushed open the apartment door, then immediately stalked over to her bowl and gave Damian a pointed look.

“Tt,” he huffed, “Don’t fuss at me.  This is Drake’s fault.”

Damian walked over to the cabinet where they kept the cat food as Paul walked into the apartment and smiled. 

“You have a cat,” Paul said, kneeling down to scratch Carrie’s head. 

“Yes,” Damian replied, scooping out some food into the kitty’s bowl, “her name is Carrie.” 

“My daughters keep begging me for a cat.  I’m afraid they won’t take care of it and it’ll be my responsibility.” 

“Carrie is very low maintenance.”  Damian dumped the food into Carrie’s bowl, expecting the prissy little cat to start eating. Instead, she stalked off and hopped up on the couch to observe whatever the humans were doing.  “She can be sassy, though.  But she’s good company.” 

He was pretty sure that’s why Tim even got her.  To be a companion for Damian.  It kind of annoyed Damian that Tim knew him so well to know that an animal would cheer him up when nothing else would.  Carrie was a good companion, too.  She listened to Damian when he needed to vent and she never judged him.  Never thought of him as less after hearing what he was thinking.  And she was always there to offer him the unconditional love of a pet that Damian had come to adore from his dog back home.   

Damian put the cat food away and went to the closet to pull out a bag to pack. 

“Did you eat dinner?” Paul suddenly asked, sounding a slight bit concerned. 

“No,” Damian, packing his school books he’d left out on the counter into his bag, “Tim never finished making it.” 

“I can see that.”  Paul pulled the skillet of half cooked vegetables off the stove and went to toss them in the garbage, then began cleaning up the mess they’d left.  At least Damian was thinking clearly enough to turn off the stove when Tim collapsed. He didn’t want to think about Tim, so he turned around to look for what to pack next.

“Damian, you should have said something.  I would have gotten you something to eat sooner.” 

“I’m fine,” Damian dismissed.  He was fine. He could skip a meal, it wasn’t that big of a deal.  He wasn’t sure he’d even be able to eat, anyway.

“We’ll get you something on the way home, okay?  You’re vegetarian, right?  There’s that place a couple blocks over we can stop at.” 

Damian simply shrugged and dragged his bag to his bedroom. 

As he put a few days’ worth of clothes into his bag, his eyes caught on a stupid sign Tim had purchased and put on a shelf in his room as a joke.  Damian could have taken it down at any time.  It wasn’t too hard to climb up on the dresser to reach the shelf. But he’d left it, because it wasn’t reallyhurting anything.  Besides, he had far better things to do than to waste his time retrieving the sign. 

He stared at the sign, reading the words over and over, and frowned. 

Tim gave Damian $50 to purchase whatever art supplies he needed. He needed seven different colors of paint for the landscape he was working on, and oils were not cheap.  So Damian spent quite a bit of time going through the various colors and brands, trying to decide which colors to cheap out on so he could afford everything he needed.

In fact, he took so long looking at the paints, that Tim wandered off, citing how ‘boring’ Damian was as a reason to explore Hobby Lobby without him. 

Damian had almost picked out his final color when Tim reappeared behind him.  “Damian!” he said, clearly very excited about something, “I found an entire section of superhero décor.  It’s ridiculous, you’d love it.”

“Tt,” Damian huffed, “I doubt it.”

“You so will.  Are you done here?  Come look with me.”

“No,” Damian said, resisting the hand that was attempting to drag him away from the paints, “I have not yet decided on which brand to buy for the rose pink I need.” 

“What’s wrong with that pink tube in your hand?” Tim whined, “Come on.”

“I do not have enough money for both it and the other paints.”

Tim frowned and let go of Damian’s arm.  “How much more is it?”

“It puts me seven dollars over budget,” Damian reported simply.

“Whatever,” Tim said, rolling his eyes, “that’s fine.  Are you done now?  Come look!”

Resisting a smile, Damian stood and followed Tim to the décor area of the store.  And, sure enough, there was an entire section dedicated to superhero merchandise. There were signs, knickknacks, clocks, paintings, and various other random objects, all donning either an actual superhero logo or following the basic theme. 

It was neat.  A little juvenile for Damian’s tastes, but neat to see.

“This one is my favorite,” Tim said, picking up a sign and quickly turning it so Damian couldn’t see, “but this one,” he said, pointing to a different sign, “is hilarious”

Damian raised an eye at the sign Tim was refusing to let him see, but turned his attention to the one he was pointing at.  The decorated sign had a childish cartoon version of Batman painted on it with a basic set of characteristics that made up a superhero. 

As Damian read through the list, he couldn’t help but snort. “A superhero shares his toys?” he asked with a slight upturn of his lips.

“I know, right?  ‘A superhero is strong and courageous,’” he read, “’Has good manners.  Says please and thank you.  Is kind.  Shares his toys.’ By these standards, Bruce is not a superhero.”

“There are scarce few within the entire Justice League that would fit these standards,” Damian scoffed, “Not even Kent embodies all of these traits all the time.” 

“True,” Tim grinned, holding the sign in his hands out, “but this one is my favorite. It’s coming home with us.”

Damian groaned as Tim dramatically flipped the sign around and read ‘Sometimes, being a brother is even better than being a superhero.’  “You were right.  That is ridiculous.  It is not coming home with us.”

“Oh, yes it is.  Dick is going to love it.  It’s the right level of corny for his taste.”

“Timothy,” Damian whined. It was bad enough Tim wanted it in their apartment, but bringing it all the way back to Gotham was utter nonsense. 

“Shhh,” Tim teased, “it’s happening.  Accept it.”

Damian groaned a bit more dramatically this time and stalked off toward the cash registers.  Behind him, he heard Tim let out a hardy laugh and couldn’t help but smile at his brother’s delight. 

So the sign wasn’t thatbad.

Damian scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his hoody and diverted his attention to his clothes.  He needed socks.  Socks and pajamas.  He didn’t have time to think about Tim and how much he missed him.

No, no, no.  He didn’t miss Tim.

He wasn’t a freaking child. 

Sitting down heavily on his bed, Damian rested his chin on his hand and stared at the picture of him and Tim at the Statue of Liberty they’d taken a few months prior.  He kept meaning to give the print out to Tim so he could put it out somewhere.  That was why he’d even printed it, but somehow it found itself on his dresser. 

All he could think about was so much he really wanted Tim to hug him.  And Damian hated himself for that desire.

When had he become such a child?  When had he started craving childish things like physical affection?  His mother would be disgusted with him.  Father might even be unnerved by it, Damian wasn’t sure. 

This was Tim’s fault. Obviously.  Tim was always hugging him.  Putting a hand on the top of his head.  On his shoulder.  Wrapping an arm around him.  Sitting next to him on the couch.

Yes.  This was Tim’s fault.

Or was it?

Because Tim always seemed to do it when Damian was craving it the most.  When he desperately needed the reminder, wanted the comfort.  He didn’t even have to say anything.  Didn’t have to look at Tim.  He just knew.  And Tim never said anything about it, just reached over and dragged Damian to his side. Ruffled his hair and smiled in that way that made Damian feel wanted.

Stop it, Damian thought harshly.  His stomach was starting to feel uneasy with guilt and pain, and it was so stupid, anyway.

Damian was not a child. He didn’t need Tim.  He didn’t need any sort of affection.  He had lived fine before he had it, he’d be fine now. 

Attachment was a weakness and he needed to not. 

He wasn’t attached to Tim, anyhow.  He just didn’t want the imbecile to die.  Because Father would be upset, of course, and Damian would be alone in this world until Father found them.  That wouldn’t be ideal.  He needed Tim, because he was too young to get a job and support himself. 

That was it.

A knock on his door startled Damian from his thoughts as Paul walked through.  “Need any help there, kiddo?”

Damian scrubbed at his face furiously as he looked away.  “No.  I’ve just about got everything,” he said as he grabbed the picture from the dresser and shoved it into his bag. 

Paul laid a hand on Damian’s shoulder, and Damian tensed up.  He had to force himself to relax it, and thought bitterly about how proud Tim would be looking at him right then if he were there to see. 

“He’s going to be okay, you know that, right?” Paul said, kneeling down so they were eye level.

Damian scowled at the patronization.  “You don’t actually know that.  Mortality rate for people with pneumonia as advance as his is-”

“I will take away your access to the internet if you are just going to use it to figure out mortality rates,” Paul said in what was probably supposed to be a teasing tone, but just fell flat to Damian’s ears.

“Tim doesn’t have a spleen,” he explained, “his body already has a difficult time fighting off infections. This…” he trailed off and frowned at the floor, not willing to let Paul see into his eyes.  See the tears he was fighting to keep hidden. 

“You and I both know Tim, and we both know he’s a stubborn kid.  He’s not going to let a cough take him away from his little brother, you hear me?”

Damian shrugged and pushed past Paul out of his room.  Maybe he just needed to get out of the apartment.  If he could just do that, he could get his mind off everything and he’d stop being so damn weak.  So whiny and childish. 

Paul was right. Tim would be fine. 

He’d be fine.

He had to be.

Damian repeated that to himself all the way to Paul's apartment.  

Chapter Text

The next three days were a blur to Damian.  A blur of lying on Paul’s couch in his living room, ‘trying’ to sleep all night, then actually sleeping in the armchair in Tim’s room at the hospital between hours of just staring at the pathetic teenager breathe with a ventilator. 

Everyone kept trying to talk to him.  Trying to get him to ‘open up’ and ‘let it out,’ but Damian didn’t want to talk to any of them.  He was so tired. 

Every time he let someone into his life, they dropped him.  They dropped him or they died or they disappeared.  And Damian was so tired of opening himself up just to deal with the pain of losing them. 

And he had known this was where his relationship with Tim would end.  And yet, here he was.  Waiting for Tim to die and leave him all alone. 

Damian was so angry.  He wasn’t even sure why, but he was just furious with Tim.

He hadn’t worked through where his anger was coming from.  He honestly didn’t want to know, either.  The mood would pass, he knew, so why did it matter?  And yelling at Tim was helping it pass.

But he didn’t even have to think over it, because during their fairly loud argument over he couldn’t even remember what, out of his mouth slipped, “Why do you even care?  You’ll just leave.”

Tim came to a crashing halt, standing there in front of Damian, his mouth half open as he blinked down at him. 

Damian scowled and pushed past him, toward his room, but not quickly enough to miss Tim mutter, “Of course you’d have abandonment issues.  Of course.” 

“I do not have abandonment issues,” he hissed, spinning on his heels to face Tim again. 

He continued to glare at his older brother as he slowly turned around to look at him.  And Tim looked completely out of his element.  Like a lost child trying to navigate his way through unfamiliar surroundings. 

“That wasn’t meant as a slight against you,” he eventually said, frowning now.

And Damian didn’t like the look Tim was levelling him.  It was like a mix of apprehension and protective concern.  It was making his stomach flip, and he didn’t like it.  So, Damian spun back around and finished retreating to his room. 

Tim let out a loud, audible sigh just before Damian slammed his door shut. 

No matter what Drake thought, Damian did not have abandonment issues.  He was not a child.  He didn’t carewhether people were in or out of his life.  It didn’t even matter. 

That was not why he was upset about any of this. 

It was not why he couldn’t let himself get attached. 

Attachment was a weakness.  That’s what he was taught.  How he was trained.  It had nothing to do with childish psychological ‘issues,’ regardless of what Tim said. 

“Damian,” Tim said tiredly as he knocked on his door, “open the door.”

“Go away,” he shouted back, sitting on his bed, hugging Carrie close to him. 

The lock on Damian’s door was a pathetic one.  It had a ‘safety feature’ that allowed it to be unlocked from the outside.  All their doors had those locks, even the bathroom. It was pointless.  Why even have a lock if it could be easily unlocked from the other side?

The sound of the little screwdriver Tim kept on the frame of the door just made Damian angrier.  Now the idiot wouldn’t even respect his privacy. 

“I hate you,” Damian snapped when Tim opened the door and gave him a tired look, “Grayson never disrespected me in this manner.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim said, approaching Damian’s bed and taking a seat at the foot, “I’m not Dick.  In case you haven’t noticed.”

“Tt.”  Damian turned his back to Tim, pulling Carrie to his face a bit more. If Tim were going to be in his room, invading his personal space, he didn’t have to give him the respect of looking at him while he spoke.

Tim didn’t seem to care. “Sometimes I wish I were,” he said. He took several long breaths, shifted a bit on the bed, then added, “Dick, you know?  Or wish he were here with us.  I’m such shit at this… this brother thing.  Dick always knew what to say, how to handle everything.  I’m just,” He let out a long sigh, and Damian could feel the tension seep out of him.  The anger ebb as Tim’s quiet voice continued on, “I’m just Tim.  And I have no idea what I’m doing.”

‘You’re doing fine,’ Damian wanted to say, ‘you’re everything I need.’  But the words were stuck in his throat. Hidden away by his anger, locked up by his pride.  So he sat there, stroking Carrie’s fur as Tim just sat behind him. 

Damian scowled at the coffee table in front of him where his cat was perched and pushed himself further back into the couch so Carrie could fit between him and the edge.  He was so glad Paul let him bring Carrie. 

The cat seemed to understand Damian’s desires, as she always did, and hopped up right by his chest, curling into him as he wrapped an arm around her. 

“You won’t leave me, right kitty?” Damian whispered into her fur as he shut his eyes.

“Adults suck, don’t they?” Tim finally said, “I’m not going to pretend to know what the first 10 years of your life were like, but I understand the past couple.”

Damian tensed at mention of his time with the League and turned slightly to listen.  He still didn’t face Tim.  His presence was still unwelcome and the conversation unwanted, but the idea that ‘adults suck’ was an interesting one, he had to admit.

“I’ve never had an adult stay in my life very long, either.  My parents were always quick to just up and leave me.  Whenever, at the drop of a hat, and it took a long time to realize it wasn’t because I’m a bad son, but because they were bad parents.”

Damian held Carrie closer to him as he drew his legs up closer to him.  He didn’t want to talk about emotionsand feelings.  And Tim thought he was nothing like Grayson. 

“Bruce was the first adult to even show care for me, but he eventually went away, too.  Dick pushed me away.  Alfred was the only steady presence through my teen years, but then I lost him when we came here.”

“Am I meant to feel bad,” Damian drawled, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the conversation. When he was out of his depths, he tended to laden his words with sarcasm and jibes. It was a habit that he, at times, felt bad for having.  Like right now, as he winced at his own words. 

“You,” Tim said, his voice steady as ever, betraying no trace of hurt from Damian’s words, “are a lot like me, in that respect.  Your mother dropped you off on Bruce’s doorstep, then walked out of your life. Then Bruce left, leaving you behind with Dick.  Then when Bruce returned, Dick high-tailed it to Bludhaven.  And not even a full year since your mom left, you lost all of them and Alfred and got stuck with me.”

“I never really had mother as a child,” Damian said dryly, “I was left with tutors and nursemaids most the time.”  Then Damian blinked.  Why had he even told Drake that, of all people?  It wasn’t his freaking business. 

“See,” Tim said, reaching out and poking Damian on the back of the shoulder, “Just like me.” 

“Tt.  We’re nothing alike.” 

“Hey, kiddo,” Paul said, walking into the living room Damian was trying to sleep in, “Laura is going to make breakfast before the girls go to school. Any special requests?”

“No,” Damian groaned, refusing to remove his face from Carrie’s fur.  He wasn’t sure what his face would even look like. It was probably splotchy.  The rings he no doubt had from not sleeping for the past couple days likely made it worse. 

Paul, annoyingly, walked closer and knelt down in front of Damian, resting a hand on the arm Damian had wrapped around his cat.  “How are you feeling?  Did you get any sleep?”

Damian shook his head, still refusing to reveal his face.  He wasn’t feeling anything.  Nothing he wanted to discuss.  Especially not with Paul. Maybe he would have discussed it with Tim.  But that wasn’t exactly an option.  It was kind of the problem.

“Talking helps, you know?” Tim said, now sitting in the center of Damian’s bed.  Just behind him.  “It’s finding someone who will listen that can be a problem, but I’m right here, Dames. And despite what you think, I’m not going anywhere.” 

Grayson had promised the same thing. And yet, he, too, walked off. Walked away and left Damian behind.

“Hey,” Tim said, tugging at Damian’s shoulder so he’d turn around.

Reluctantly, Damian d did so and turned to face his older brother, but refused to meet his eyes.  Because Tim would say this now.  He’d say this when it was easy to promise, but then they’d return to Gotham.  They’d get to Gotham, Tim would be an adult, and he’d move on.  Go to San Francisco or Europe or something, work with his team and leave Damian in the dust.  Forget all about him.  Be happy to be rid of him. 

Damian had been down this road before, and he didn’t want to relive it.  His mother had been right, getting attached was a weakness, and the pain it caused when the person inevitably left was not worth it.

Tim gently grasped Damian’s chin and lifted his head so they were looking right at each other.  Damian half-heartedly tried to pull away, but was stopped by Tim’s other hand.  “Damian, I’m not going anywhere.  You’re my favorite, and that isn’t going to change just because we go home.  You’re stuck with me now, so deal with it.” 

Tugging away out of Tim’s grasp, Damian sniffed and shook his head.  Forever meant nothing.  They’d get back to Gotham and Tim would remember how much he hated Damian, and it would be all over.  And Damian would be left alone.  Again. 

“I love you, Damian,” Tim whispered as he dragged Damian into a hug, crushing him into his shoulder, “one day you’ll trust my words.  I’ll just keep saying them until you do, okay?”

And Damian pressed his hand into his eyes, forcing the tears begging to be released to stay in.  He hated Tim for making him feel this way.  For giving him so many reasons to trust him.  For making him love him. 

“I,” Damian choked out, as he finally let go and fell apart.  Right in front of Paul.  Right into Carrie’s fur, “I never told him I loved him.” 

Paul’s hand moved up and down the length of his arm upon his confession, then moved to the side of his head as Paul brushed back some of his hair and tried to coax his face out into view.  “You didn’t have to, Damian,” the man said gently, “He knows you do.” 

“No, he doesn’t,” Damian argued, shaking his head and sitting up a bit, letting Carrie hop off so he was facing Paul directly, “I tell him all the time I hate him.”

“Do you ever mean you actually hate him?” Paul questioned with a slight smile, dropping his hand down to his knee.

When Damian shook his head, Paul said gently, “Tim knows that, kiddo.  He knows you.”

“How do you know?” Damian asked defiantly, pulling his knees up to his chest so he could rest his cheek on them, “I’m always so mean to him.”

Paul smiled and said, “He talks about you nonstop.  He acts like you’re the single best person on the face of the planet.”

That drew Damian’s attention, causing him to sit up a little straighter and raise an eyebrow at the man in front of him. “He does?”

“Yeah.  He loves you, and he knows you love him back. You’ve done plenty to show him as much, so don’t worry about never saying it in words. Besides, you can still tell him when he wakes up. Now come on, let’s go see if Laura needs any help with breakfast.” 

Nodding, Damian stood up and followed Paul toward the kitchen. 

Maybe Paul was right.

Tim was pretty good at just knowing what Damian was thinking, right? 

But then again, if Tim died, would it even matter?

That day, while Damian was keeping vigil at his brother’s bedside, it took four hours to work up the courage to whisper to the teenager, “I love you.” 

And Tim didn’t react at all.

Chapter Text

On day five, Damian was highly encouraged to go to school. 

He was not pleased with the prospect.  Paul and Laura had insisted that getting back to his routine would help him, get his mind off everything or something, but Damian disagreed. 

Because when he woke up that morning, he and Tim didn’t go for a run. They didn’t work out together and then spar.  Damian didn’t get to sit at the counter reading or watching videos on Youtube while Tim tried out some new ridiculous recipe as he honed his cooking skills.

No.

Damian woke up on the couch in his friend’s apartment and ate a bowl of oatmeal at the table with an actual nuclear family.  One with a mom and a dad and two children.  And they all discussed what their plans for the day were while happily eating their meal.

It was weird.

Then he was driven to school by Paul. 

He probably would have preferred lying on the couch until someone brought him to the hospital, honestly. 

Once at school, Damian had hoped that everything would move smoothly and it would be just like any other day.

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t because it seemed the entire fucking school had heard that his brother was basically on death’s door.  And everyone had to be nice to the delicate little orphan boy who was losing his only relative. 

He could stab them all.  Not fatally, of course, but painfully.  Very painfully.  If he heard one more “I’m sorry about your brother,” he was going to scream. 

And of course, each of his teachers said it.  So, Damian didn’t actually scream about it.

But he wanted to. 

That was his mood when Paul picked him up that afternoon.  He decided to blow off all his clubs and dance class in favor of just going to the hospital.  At least Drake in his stupid unconscious state wouldn’t be all pitying and judge-y. 

Paul sighed as Damian stalked into Tim’s room and tossed his backpack on the floor.  Damian took a seat in his usual armchair, kicked off his shoes, and pulled his legs up in the seat, ready to take a nap or just sit there for a while. 

“Are you just going to sit here until visiting hours are over?” Paul asked, taking the seat next to Damian.

Damian crossed his arms and pouted over at Paul.  “That is the plan.”

“Damian,” Paul said gently, reaching out and placing a hand on Damian’s knee.  When Damian pulled his leg away and scowled, Paul withdrew his hand and sighed. “You know, he’s in a medically induced coma.  He’s not going to wake up until they wake him up.” 

“And?” Damian demanded, “If you are attempting to suggest I attend dance class tonight, you can save your breath.  I’m not going.”

Dance was something he really enjoyed.  He had a great time there.  It was a place he could forget about everything and just lose himself in the motions.  But that was when everyone was treating him like he was just any other kid there. Not like a delicate little flower in need of special treatment. 

He wasn’t sure if he could handle his dance instructor coddling him.  She was a strong woman who was tough on him, never took his crap and expected the best.  He liked that about her, he enjoyed the challenge and enjoyed having someone push him constantly. 

If she treated him the way all his teachers had that day, he wasn’t sure what his reaction would be.  He always felt so close to crying, it was disturbing him. 

Anger was an emotion he knew well, the feeling of always being just one little comment, one tiny push away from exploding in rage was well known to him. He’d been getting better at it over the past couple years.  He was controlling himself better.  Calming down quicker and staying that way, despite the little annoyances he had to deal with.

But feeling sad was new to him.  Sad and scared.  He’d rather be angry.

“That’s fine,” Paul said, shifting in his seat, “I won’t force you to do something you don’t want to do.”   

“You made me go to school today,” Damian said bluntly. 

Paul sighed again and leaned forward in his chair, steepling his hands and staring down at them.  “Yes, because I don’t want you sitting here all day every day, wallowing.  It’s not good for you.” 

“I am not wallowing,” Damian snapped. 

Wallowing would suggest he were completely devoted to sitting here.  It would suggest he were indulging himself in the activity.  That he was unrestrained.  Helpless. 

Damian was none of those things.  He was not wallowing.  He was…

What was he doing?

Offering his brother comfort. 

Yes. 

“Okay,” Paul said, standing up and patting Damian’s on the knee. 

That man and his insistence on touching Damian, despite how many times Damian’s moved away and glared, annoyed him.  Usually people quit, but not Paul.  He seemed determined to make Damian comfortable with the small gestures.   

“I’m going to drop the girls off at home, then I’ll pick you up some dinner and come back here, okay? I want you to eat tonight.  You can’t let this keep you from taking care of yourself.” 

“Fine, whatever,” Damian pouted, turning away from Paul, “just leave me alone.”

Paul stuck around for another moment, as if he wanted to say something more, but Damian pointedly avoided looking over at him.  Finally, he sighed and left the room, leaving Damian alone with his brother. 

The warning that he couldn’t let his attachment to Tim keep him from taking care of himself stuck around much longer, however. 

Because Paul was right. 

He had been neglecting himself.  It’d been days since he ate a full three meals.  He probably hadn’t taken in enough calories for his size and activity level since Tim got sick.

While that wasn’t a huge deal, not for him, he knew how to survive and keep going on starvation rations, it wasn’t healthy. 

Maybe.  Maybe his mother was right.  Attachments were a weakness.

His attachment to Tim had sent him into a depressive state over his illness. 

If he were still with the league…  If he were Robin.  He’d be dead. Someone would have taken advantage of him and killed him. 

This was something that could be used against him once he and Tim returned to Gotham, as well. 

Damian sniffed as he rubbed at his face furiously. 

His mother would hate what he’d become.  A sniveling little child.  Crying over stupid little things.  Damian hated what he’d become. 

Why did Tim even like him? 

He probably didn’t really. 

Growling at himself, Damian flung himself down into the chair, curling in on himself as he shut his eyes tight.  He needed to stop.  Get off this train of thought. 

Think about something else. 

Like how his father wouldn’t want anything to do with him if he knew how young and childish he was. 

“Hey,” Paul said softly from right in front of Damian as he set his hand on his shoulder, causing Damian to jump hard. 

Damian scowled as he bit back every little comment that came to mind to respond to Paul.  If he pissed Paul off too much, he could easily just tell social services to come pick him up.  And Damian certainly didn’t want his social worker anywhere near him. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Paul said, placing his hand back, “how are you feeling?”

“You didn’t,” Damian snipped, pushing Paul’s hand away as he sat up. He begrudgingly took the box of fried rice Paul handed him and took a bite.  Maybe if he busied himself eating, Paul would quit talking to him.

Instead, the insufferable man took a seat next to him and pulled out his own box of food. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

“Tt,” Damian huffed between bites.  Paul had been trying to get him to talk all week.  It was honestly grating at his nerves. 

Damian welcomed the anger.  It was a nice change from the constant, oppressive sadness he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried. 

“If you let me in, I might be able to help you out of that spiral you’re stuck on.”

“I’m not stuck.”  He wasn’t. Absolutely wasn’t. There were no pervasive thoughts he couldn’t get rid of. 

Paul raised an eyebrow and asked, almost amused, “Oh really?”

“You are not my father,” Damian snapped, glaring off to the side.  He was not having this discussion with Paul.  More than anything, he hated that the stupid man could even read him so well. 

“Damian,” Paul began, tilting his head as he examined Damian, “I’m not trying to be.”

“Then stop trying to make me talk about,” he started, then growled in frustration.  After a deep breath, he said, “leave me alone.” 

A minute of silence passed as Damian pouted toward the wall, his back turned completely toward Paul now.  He tried to keep eating, but he didn’t have much of an appetite, and wasn’t really in the mood to eat, anyway.

“Eat your dinner,” Paul said pointedly, apparently letting the topic drop.

And that made a pang of guilt shoot through him.  He had promised.  His mother would-

No.

No no no no no.

Damian shoved a forkful of rice into his mouth and scowled at Tim’s bed. 

This was all Tim’s fault. 

No.  This was all that stupid thug’s fault.  The one who shot them to this dumb universe.  Had that never happened, Damian would have never had to rely on stupid Tim Drake, and then they’d never be close enough for Damian to even care if he died. 

He wouldn’t be having any of these problems if he were still back home. He’d probably be dead.  Like his comics said would happen. 

Damian set the box of rice on the table next to him and pulled his legs up closer so he could rest his head on them.  Why were those his only two options?  Be dead or be weak?

Sighing, Damian ran a hand through his hair before he finally started talking. Very softly.  “My mother always said that caring for people–loving people–is a weakness. Letting people in just… it opens…”

With a hitch in his breath, Damian buried his head back down into his knees. He shouldn’t have started talking. Especially not with Paul freaking Blackwell.  He didn’t even know what to say, how to put what he needed help with into words. 

Tim was really the person he needed.  He could speak freely with Tim.  Talk about the league.  Break down in front of him.  It wouldn’t matter.  It wouldn’t change anything between them. 

That thought just sent another stab of pain in his chest and it took every ounce of strength not to just break down crying right then.

Paul seemed to realize Damian wasn’t going to continue, so he said in the most exaggerated horrified voice Damian had ever heard, “That’s a horrible thing for a mother to teach.”

For some reason, the sentence mixed with the tone brought a smile to Damian’s lips.  “Yeah, well. That’s my mother,” Damian said as the smile quickly faded, “she uh…” he trailed off, rubbing at his face.

“Letting people in,” Paul began, placing one hand just behind Damian in his chair.  Not quite touching him, but still there, offering that little bit of warmth. Damian found it strangely comforting. “It can be scary.  Especially when we’ve never done it before or haven’t done it in a while.  It opens you up to hurt, to pain, betrayal, and a whole host of other negative emotions you wouldn’t experience had you just kept yourself closed off.  But you know what, Damian?”

Damian frowned and hugged his knees a little tighter.  “What?”

“It also brings so much joy into our lives.  Loving someone and letting them love you?  It brings a sense of peace, a feeling of belonging, happiness. It teaches us compassion and caring and so much more.”

“Loving someone might be a weakness.  It really might, because, yes, it is something that can easily cause you pain and can be exploited to do so.  But Damian? When you let someone in like that, it’s no longer just you.  It’s not just your strength you have to rely on, but the strength of the ones you love, too. And you and Tim?  You have each other.”

“Not if he dies,” Damian said petulantly.   

At that, Paul let his arm drop fully onto Damian’s back and pulled him into a short hug.  “He’ll be fine, kiddo.  I keep telling you that.” 

Damian simply nodded as he rubbed at his face.

He sure hoped so.