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The alarm goes off, and the day starts with blurred grays and Tim blinks awake, a heaviness settling on his chest. He shuts the alarm off and pulls a hoodie over his head and sits there, feet cold on his floor and hands tucked into his sleeves.
Eventually, he gets up with a deep breath, tries not to stumble as he pulls on a pair of socks, but his feet stay cold and it runs up his spine like an emotion more than a sensation.
There's a heavy fog surrounding his head and it's not until he flicks the light on in his bathroom and stares at his pale and tired reflection, with dark circles under his eyes and a purple bruise on his chin from patrol the night before, that he gets a glimpse through the fog.
He grips the countertop, knuckles white, and bites his bottom lip to keep it from trembling.
Tim closes his eyes and forces himself to let go of the counter and pick up his toothbrush.
Dick is dead.
Unfortunately, the world doesn’t stop at this familiar revelation.
His feet pad softly on the stairs as he walks down them, a hand on the railing, tracing the grain with his thumb and ignoring the intrusive silence surrounding him.
The kitchen is dark when he walks in, Alfred had stopped getting up with the sun the day after Dick died. Tim has set his alarm earlier ever since, spent hours online learning how to make tea and scrambled eggs. He slips a few pieces of bread into the toaster and turns the kettle on, lets the gas stove slowly fill the room with warmth.
He doesn’t turn the light on.
Halfway through cracking eggs into a glass bowl, the stool across the island from him screeches against the floor as someone small hops onto it. Tim doesn’t turn around.
“Cooking in the dark, Drake?” Damian says, and it’s accusing and hostile but it’s also empty and sad.
Tim can feel the retort flare up in his chest, the anger he usually gets when Damian provokes him, pushes him to his limit.
But Dick is dead, and he lets it fade.
“I didn’t want to wake anyone up,” Tim says. He opens the fridge and holds up a package, “Vegetarian bacon or avocado toast?”
Damian scowls at him, but after a moment, he shrugs, “Bacon if you can manage not to burn it.”
“For you? Black and crispy.”
They go quiet after that, and Tim keeps busy around the kitchen, stirring the eggs or buttering toast or checking on the tea.
He sets a plate in front of Damian, trying to seem nonchalant about it, but he knows he doesn’t really pull it off.
“You are no Pennyworth,” Damian tells him, but he eats without any more complaints, so Tim calls it a win.
He piles stuff onto a tray and balances it at his hip carefully. “Okay, I’m gonna bring these to Alfred and Bruce. You can pour yourself more tea if you want it.”
“Father is still in the cave.”
Tim pauses, sighs, and nods. “Figures. Guess I’ll bring one down too.”
“Drake.”
“What?”
Damian keeps his eyes on his plate, picking apart his eggs absently, “You haven’t eaten.”
Tim opens his mouth to ask why the hell Damian cares, but there’s a stiffness in his shoulders, tension in his posture. His head is ducked and he looks smaller in the poorly lit kitchen than Tim has ever seen him. Maybe a few weeks ago, he would have thrown out an insult or a clipped reply, but Dick is dead, so he doesn’t.
“I’ll steal some of Bruce’s. Besides, I had some toast before you got up.”
It’s a lie, and he’s pretty sure they both know it, but Damian doesn’t push, so Tim leaves.
***
Tim paces the cave floor, hands tapping at his side, eyebrows pulled into a glare.
It’s not that he’s angry, maybe a little frustrated, sure, but he’s not angry. Tim has been pulling this family together and fixing broken situations since before he was Robin. He knows what he’s doing.
The Batmobile skids into the cave and suddenly he’s fourteen again, antsy to ask Bruce about the move he used on some crook, knowing in the back of his mind that he’d never get an answer.
Suddenly he’s fourteen again, only this time instead of not being Jason, he’s not Dick.
Bruce pulls himself out of the car, yanking his cowl down. He pauses for only a millisecond when he sees Tim, but Tim catches the hesitation anyway.
“Tim,” He greets, walking past.
He didn’t let things go that easily when he was fourteen, and he won’t do it now.
“You have to start taking Damian out again,” He says, and when Bruce ignores him, he spins to follow him to the computer and lets some of Batman’s steel into his voice, “Bruce.”
“He needs more time.”
“To what? Train? You and I both know that isn’t true.”
“To learn to follow orders, Tim. He’s reckless and brash.”
“He’s also quick thinking and skilled. You need him out there.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why? Because you need more time to satisfy your violent streak?” Tim snaps, and he regrets it the second he says it.
Bruce turns, slowly, to glare daggers at him. “No.”
A long time ago, Tim learned that knowing when to quit is easier to say than to put into practice. He glares right back, “Really? This isn’t like back when I was Robin, when you were out of your mind with rage? Robin is there to--”
“Tim,” Bruce interrupts sharply. “This has nothing to do with reasons you became Robin.”
“Then what--”
“I will not lose another son.”
They stare at each other, Bruce’s eyes narrowed, Tim’s wide. He swallows thickly and forces his hands to relax, then he nods. “Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“Tim,” Bruce says again, his eyes soften. “You’re looking out for all of us. Thank you.”
“It’s what I do, right?”
Any other day that would have been met with a lecture about his own health, a text from Dick asking if he needs to talk, if he wants to grab lunch.
But Dick is dead, and Bruce only sighs, standing to squeeze his shoulder. “Look out for yourself, too, chum.”
Tim doesn’t reply to that, instead he manages a smile and says, “I know you’re worried about him, but Damian’s going insane here. Just a few patrols, until you both get your nerve back.”
He turns and walks away before he has time to see if Bruce agrees.
***
“I still believe that you are inadequate.”
“Gee, thanks,” Tim says dryly, pulling on his gloves.
Damian scowls, pressing his mask against his face forcefully. “That being said, thanks are in order, for speaking to father.”
Tim chuckles, buckling his belt at his waist. “Come on, Damian. You two were going insane. It was a mess.”
“I was not a mess.”
“You kind of were.”
“No.”
“Just a little bit.”
“Shut up, Drake.”
***
Gotham doesn’t sleep, but just between three and four am, it seems to settle, calming to a hostile buzz like a hive of bees just about to wake.
Tim stares down at it, eyes glazed over as the car lights and working street lamps blur. His hands shake in his lap and he closes his eyes. Something rustles behind him and the corner of his mouth quirks up involuntarily, “Your patrol ended hours ago.”
“Are you going to tell father?” Damian challenges, sounding annoyed to have been caught.
“Why are you following me?”
“Why are you sitting up here?”
Tim rolls his eyes, but scoots over as if to give room, even though there’s plenty of space on both sides of him. He pats the concrete lightly, “Felt like remembering.”
“Remembering?” Damian asks incredulously, but he still sits down.
Nodding, Tim gestures to the city with a tilt of his head, “Why we do this. Wear the capes, even with the consequences.”
“You’re just looking at Gotham.”
“Exactly,” Tim says with a smirk.
Damian studies his face, frowning, before he turns to look at the city again. After a few moments he says quietly, “Is this why he did it?”
Dick is dead, and Tim never asked him the question himself, but he’s fairly confident when he says, “Yeah, but I think it was mostly for us.”
They sit together until the sun begins to rise and Bruce calls Tim to ask where Damian is. He doesn’t tell him he snuck out, and Damian doesn’t insult him for the rest of the day.
***
Tim is woken up by shouting, and he’s out of bed and skidding into the hall within seconds. Bruce is patrolling, and Alfred is on comms, which leaves Tim and Damian in the manor alone.
Damian shouts again, and Tim picks up his pace, throwing Damian’s door open.
The boy is laying in his bed, asleep, thrashing back and forth and whimpering. He throws a fist out just as Tim reaches him, and it catches him in the jaw.
“Ouch,” Tim hisses, batting his hand away and grabbing both his wrists. Damian struggles against him, trying desperately to get out of his hold. “Damian. Damian!”
His attempts are drowned out by another shout from Damian, and gritting his teeth, Tim pulls Damian forward until he’s sitting, climbs onto the bed behind him, and pulls Damian back against his chest, crossing his arms and holding him in a restrictive hug.
“You’re okay, Damian. It’s just me.”
It strikes him that those two statements don’t necessarily go hand in hand. Damian yanks again, but it’s slower this time, more subdued. Tim hushes him, “You’re safe in the manor, Damian.”
If he was Dick, he would call him baby and kiss his head and tell him he loves him.
But Dick is dead, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that Tim is anything but his older brother.
“You’re safe,” He says again.
Damian settles in his arms, eyes open just a little, obviously still half asleep.
“Richard?” He mutters groggily.
Throat tightening, Tim doesn’t say anything. He just holds Damian tighter.
Damian is asleep again in five minutes, and Tim untangles himself from his hold and tucks the blankets back over him.
“I’m sorry that I’m not him,” He whispers, his hand lifts to brush his hair away from his face but he stops halfway there, and drops his hand. “I’m sorry it wasn’t me instead.”
He leaves without another word.
***
“Drake,” Damian says harshly, stopping in Tim’s doorway with his arms crossed and Titus at his heel.
Tim glances up from his laptop briefly, “Hey.”
“You’re forgiven.”
By the time Tim realizes what he’s talking about and looks up, eyes wide, Damian is gone.
***
The pictures surround him on the floor, old snapshots that go from blurry and oddly angled to ones that look professional and steady. He picks up another picture of Nightwing, staring at the easy smile on his face as he flips backwards.
There was a time when that smile was so frequent that Tim barely saw it, most days. He’d give anything, now.
“What are those?”
At this point, Tim isn’t even surprised. Damian is around a lot more since Dick died, hovering like he’s looking for something that isn’t here anymore.
It’s alright. Tim is used to playing the part of ghosts.
“Pictures, from before I was Robin.” He holds out the one in his hand, inviting. “You can come look if you want.”
Damian clicks his tongue like he has better things to do, but he takes the photo anyway. He stares at it for a few seconds, like he’s criticizing the details. He looks down at the rest, laying out on the floor. “You took all of these?”
“Yeah.”
“They are… passable.”
He could kick Damian out for that, glare at him, tell him he couldn’t do any better. But Dick is dead, so he doesn’t. “Thanks.”
Damian looks surprised at that, and Tim wonders how much of his hostility is a shield, and the reason Dick grew so close with him was because he didn’t pay it any mind.
“May I--” Damian starts, and then scowls, moving to set the picture down. “Never mind. Pennyworth sent me to tell you lunch is ready soon, not that I am your personal messenger.”
Tim hums, picking the picture back up as soon as it hits the floor. He holds it out again, “You want it? I have tons more, it’s not a problem.”
There’s less hesitation this time before Damian snatches it and leaves the room. Tim calls it a win.
***
“Why do you care?” Damian shouts at him, slamming his gloves onto the ground.
Tim scowls, “Maybe because you got clocked in the head? You could have a concussion--”
“Please, Drake. As if I’m in need of your assistance.”
“Can we cut the holier than thou act for one second--”
“I assure you this is no act,” Damian snaps. “You are not my brother, you are not my friend. You are not even my partner, so leave me alone.”
He stomps to the showers, stripping off his cape and dropping that on the ground too. Tim closes his eyes for a breath, and then looks up. “What am I doing, Dick? I’m not you. I can’t--”
Sighing, Tim bends down to pick up Damian’s gloves, walks a few steps more to pick up his cape. He folds them neatly and puts them away, debates waiting until Damian gets out of the shower.
With another sigh, he sits down at the computer. It’ll be another sleepless night either way, Damian can decide to talk with him or not.
“You were always better at all of this,” He whispers to empty air. “You’d know exactly what to say.”
Instead, no one says anything.
***
Tim knocks on Damian’s door frame, leaning into the room. Damian doesn’t look up from his book, but he doesn’t tell Tim to get out, either. “Since Bruce is offworld, I figured you might want to patrol with me.”
“Why would I want that?”
“Because otherwise you have to stay home.”
Damian rolls his eyes, flipping a page in his book. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t rather that. We both know you’re only playing civility with me because Richard is… because he is--”
“Well, yeah,” Tim interrupts, saving him from having to finish the sentence. “That’s obviously the reason.”
“Great.”
“Cool.”
“Get out.”
There it is. Tim sighs, stepping back so he is, technically, out of the room. “Damian, I’m being nice because Dick is gone, and I think he would have wanted me to, but also because… I don’t know. You and him were close. I know we can’t be like that, but I figured you could still use a brother.”
Damian is looking up from his book now, staring at him with wide eyes. He blinks, shakes his head, goes back to his book. “You’re not my brother.”
“Okay. Leave at nine?”
“Fine.”
***
For Tim, grieving has never been blue. Blue is for sharp laughter and a steady hand spotting him while he learns how to do backflips on the mats in the caves. It’s for flashes of a figure in the distance, signaling that backup is coming, that he’s not alone. It’s arms around him while he cries because his mother doesn’t love him, because his mother is dead. It’s the fingers carding through his hair and the steady heartbeat against his cheek while his fever spikes.
Blue is for the eyes of a boy who hugged him and looked at him like he was real.
No, grieving isn’t blue. Grieving is the gray brown of Gotham air, tugging at his lungs and threatening to topple him off the ledge he’s sitting on.
Blue, that’s for Dick.
Tim watches a red car cut off a black one at the intersection, watches as an arm stretches out from the black car’s window, shaking its fist. He watches closely, waiting to step in if it gets messy. People in Gotham are rarely forgiving.
The air once again fills his lungs and the brown comes with it tenfold as he inhales sharply.
That’s it, isn’t it? Dick is dead, and Tim was angry.
They made up, sure. They were healing, being brothers again. Running across the tops of trains and pretending that they were younger again, that there wasn’t a rift between them.
But there was, and Tim was still angry at him when he died.
The red car speeds off, leaving the black one sitting in the middle of the intersection, horns blaring on all sides, the fist still shaking.
If he’s being honest with himself, he still hasn’t forgiven Dick, for what he did back then.
Maybe that’s why he’s doing this, trying to connect with Damian. The guilt’s there, sure, and the feather light weight of sympathy and care he feels for the kid, knowing that his only real connection is dead, but more than that…
More than that, Tim wants to know if he’ll be able to see it. The thing that made Damian worth it, made Dick decide that between the two of them, he wanted the ten year old with a flare for murder and obvious anger management issues.
Because if he can see what Dick saw back then, maybe he’ll see that it was Damian, not him.
Not for the first time, Tim looks up at the sky, his eyebrows pinched together, rubbing against the top of his domino mask uncomfortably.
“I forgive you,” he tries, not for the first time.
It’s still a lie.
***
It’s another nightmare, but this time, by the time Tim has stumbled into Damian’s room and flicked the lights on, Damian is already awake, sitting on his floor with his back against his dresser.
He glares at Tim, or maybe he’s squinting in the light. Either way, his eyes are red and puffy. “What do you want?”
“You okay?” Tim asks, and then winces. “Let me rephrase that. On a scale of one to that time Jason almost jumped out the window, how bad was it?”
Damian rolls his eyes. “It was nothing.”
“Was it about Dick?”
“I said it was nothing.”
“I get them too,” Tim says. It gets Damian’s attention like he thought it would. “I keep having dreams where he dies again and I can’t save him, again. Or where he comes back and he says that it should have been me, that I failed him, that I didn’t do enough.”
Scoffing, Damian looks away. “That’s ridiculous. Richard would never be so crass.”
“No, he probably wouldn’t. Damian, you… you know that you can talk to me, right?”
“Pity doesn’t look good on you, Drake.”
“It isn’t pity. I just want to make sure you have someone here, for stuff you don’t want to talk to Bruce about.”
“I’ve already told you you’re not my brother.”
Tim shrugs, “I mean, you don’t have to like it, but I pretty much legally am.”
“No you’re not,” Damian says, on his feet now. “I only had one brother.”
“That’s on me,” Tim admits quietly, “I should have done better.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m still your brother, Damian.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You are not my brother!” Damian shouts, stepping forward to shove against Timothy’s chest.
“Yes I am,” Tim replies calmly, barely moved at all by the blow.
Damian shoves him again, “No, you aren't!”
“I am.”
“You’re not my brother!”
“Yes, I am.”
“I don’t have any brothers,” Damian sobs, shoving pitifully against him once again. “My brother died.”
“So did mine,” Timothy says, and his voice breaks, “but I’ve still got a few left.”
“I don’t have any brothers,” Damian repeats quietly.
Timothy pulls him into a hug, propping his chin on top of his head. “You have me.”
***
“Yo,” Jason says, dropping down next to Tim on the roof. He snorts, leaning back against the attic window frame. “This was my smoking spot, when I was a kid.”
Tim hums, gesturing to the tiny black scorch marks littered around them. “I know.”
“Blondie told me, what you’re doing for the kid.”
“Yep,” Tim says.
“Want to tell me what that’s about?”
A shrug is the only answer he gets.
Jason rolls his eyes, “Hey, just because you’re the most like Bruce doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole.”
That prompts a small huff of laughter, and Tim looks up, meeting Jason’s eyes. They’re bloodshot, and a little puffy. His hair has lost it’s natural sweep, laying flat on his head. Tim has always found it interesting, how you could look at someone and see grief clinging to them like a toddler afraid of the dark.
“Figured he needs somebody,” Tim tells him finally, turning his gaze to the Wayne property. If he squints, he can see the old Drake manor in the distance. It’s still under his name, sitting empty.
Tim’s parents grave’s are in a private plot across town, but Tim’s is that house, looming out of the corner of his eye wherever he goes.
Jason shifts to slam his shoulder against Tim’s. “You’re doing that dumbass thing again, where you pretend not to feel anything.”
“Yeah? How’s this month treating you, Jason?” Tim shoots back.
Snorting again, Jason nods. “Fair enough.”
“I’m just tired.”
“That’s your excuse for everything.”
“Well it’s true.”
“Then take a fucking tranq and tell me what’s really going on.”
Tim scoffs, anger flaring up in his throat and throwing his vision off. “My brother is dead, that’s what’s going on.” Before Jason can say anything, he’s on his feet, arms out by his sides, half balance and half confrontational. “Is that what you want to hear? That our brother is dead and I have no clue how the hell to deal with it?”
“I mean, yeah.”
“Is it? Is that what you want to hear? Or do you want me to tell you how fucking pissed off I am? That my alarm goes off every goddamn morning and I wonder why it wasn’t me?”
Jason’s eyebrows are lowered now, watching him closely. “Tim--”
“No,” Tim interrupts with a self deprecating laugh. “You said to tell you, so here I am, telling you that I am angry at everyone. I’m angry at myself for not saving him, I’m angry at Bruce for not bringing him back, I’m angry at the fucking universe for killing every person that I love!”
Standing now too, Jason takes a hesitant step forward. Jason isn’t hesitant, he’s purposeful and steady even when he’s unhinged, but Tim doesn’t care. Jason takes another step, hand outstretched towards him, “Timmy, lets just go inside, alright?”
“I’m angry at Dick!” Tim shouts, barely hearing him. “I’m angry that he died! That I have to sit here and wonder what the hell I didn’t have back then, instead of getting the answer from him! I’m angry and I can’t forgive him because he isn’t here--”
Tim is cut off when his foot slips. He hadn’t even realized how close he was to the edge of the roof. For a moment, he stumbles, trying to get his footing, but he’s off balance and shaking and the sky falls into view as he tips back.
“How did you know I’d be there to save you?”
“You’re my brother, Dick, you’ll always be there for me.”
Two arms wrap around him, tugging him harshly back onto the roof and against someone’s chest. For a minute, just for a minute, Tim can imagine it’s Dick, there to catch him again.
It’s not.
“Jesus, baby bird,” Jason hisses into his hair. “Don’t do that.”
Something that’s been cracking inside of Tim finally shatters, and he reaches up to grip at the back of Jason’s jacket, barely stifling a sob. “I didn’t forgive him.”
Jason hugs him tighter, a wet tear drops onto Tim’s forehead, trails down over his nose, mixes with his own. “I know, kid.”
“What was wrong with me?”
“Nothing.”
“But he--”
“There wasn’t anything wrong with you. There’s not,” Jason snaps. “You hear me?”
Tim swallows, closing his eyes against the worn fabric of Jason’s shirt. “Yeah.”
“But are you listening?” Jason pushes.
He wants to lie, but Dick is dead, and the sky is brown, not blue, so he doesn’t say anything.
Jason doesn’t let go for a while.
***
When Tim wakes up the next morning, he’s wrapped in a hoodie too big for him. It smells like Jason, but when Tim sits up he can see the Nightwing emblem on the chest.
He freezes, one of his hands lifts from the tangle of blankets to trace the symbol slowly.
“Todd seemed worried,” Damian says, suddenly appearing in his doorway. Tim jumps, looking up and squinting at him with bleary eyes. Damian crosses his arms. “Obviously, there’s nothing to worry about. You are alive.”
Tim doesn’t want to think about why that’s Damian’s classification of ‘fine’ when it comes to his brothers.
He does anyway.
Sighing, Tim gestures for Damian to come closer, not really checking if he listens or not, too focused on rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Hungry?”
“Pennyworth already prepared breakfast,” Damian tells him, frowning. “He suggested I didn’t wake you to join us. Apparently you’re sleep deprived.”
“Yeah,” Tim snorts, turning back to look at the hoodie.
Damian hovers in the doorway, finally taking a few steps forward. He stops again, analyzing the room like he’s trying to figure it out. “I never actually believed you were… less than me.”
Tim’s head snaps up at that. He gapes at Damian before wiping the expression off his face. “Oh?”
“Just that you should have been,” Damian clarifies.
“Oh.”
“You were a threat to my legacy. I was taught to destroy threats.”
“Was? Past tense?”
Damian shrugs, “I no longer see you as a threat.”
Tim makes a face, not sure if that’s an insult or not. “Thanks?”
“You’re welcome,” Damian tells him. He shuffles forward to press his hand flat against the Nightwing symbol on Jason’s hoodie, almost like he needs to, needs it. “I miss him.”
He’s back in the doorway by the time Tim processes that, his chest is cold where Damian’s hand was. “Me too.”
His little brother nods once, decisively. “Get some sleep, Drake. I will inform Pennyworth you will join us for a late lunch.”
The room is silent for a long time, and then Tim flops back down, curling up under the covers once again.
“Huh,” he says, and falls asleep in minutes.
***
Things aren’t good, after that, but they’re better.
Jason, out of concern for him, starts staying at the manor again, sleeping in the guest bedroom across from Tim’s. He shows up at breakfast, usually arguing with Stephanie over some sort of food preference, like if peanut butter or syrup goes better on pancakes.
Sometimes, Bruce will even be there, and him and Jason don’t act like they hate each other. They just eat their food, and occasionally Jason will turn to him with a ‘can you believe this?’ look, and Bruce will agree with whatever point Jason is making, and Stephanie will act as if she’s wounded, and none of them comment that Bruce always takes Jason’s side.
Tim sits at the table and watches them interact, and thinks this is the second time he’s forced the family to come together again after a loss.
He guesses there’s just something about tragedy that makes people see him, maybe for the first time.
Currently, Stephanie is trying to convince Jason that raisin cookies are good, while Jasona acts like even the suggestion is a personal offense against him.
Bruce is at the end of the table, looking at the newspaper he’s not actually reading.
Tim thinks that Dick would love this, that he’d be proud of them.
He pushes his plate away, not hungry anymore.
“Drake will accompany me to the zoo today,” Damian announces abruptly, and the table goes quiet.
Tim looks up, ignores everyone looking at him, and watches as Damian narrows his eyes at Tim’s half eaten plate.
Huh.
“Okay,” he says finally, shrugging.
Stephanie and Jason go back to their conversation, and when Tim glances at Bruce, he’s watching him with a bewildered look, but there’s something in his eyes, and his lips quirk up at the corners.
Suddenly Tim is fourteen again, and he’s a ghost.
***
The zoo is actually kind of fun. Tim didn’t think it would be, to be honest. He thought he’d trail behind Damian, only interacting with the kid when he needed to steer him away from whatever toddler or employee he decided to challenge to a duel.
It’s not like that at all.
Something possesses Damian when they step through the gates, he gets this look in his eyes that Tim has never seen before, and then Tim’s hand is being grabbed and Damian is dragging him straight to the reptiles.
He has a lot to say about boa constrictors.
Tim watches in wonder as Damian prattles away, talking his ear off about what each animal eats and how often. Their prefered habitat, the first time Damian ever saw one in the wild.
Maybe this is what he was missing, the part only Dick got to see.
Damian’s just a child.
A murderous, could and has killed people in his sleep, hostile, brash child, but still a child.
He’s going on about bearded dragons, and Tim looks down at their clasped hands, and he wonders if he was ever a child, too.
Maybe Damian was a second chance to save that piece of him, when Dick couldn’t do the same for Jason, when Tim’s was already gone when he showed up.
“Are you listening?” Damian asks him hotly, and a mother a few steps away gives them an adoring look.
Tim swallows, and nods. “Yeah. Have any idea why they’re called bearded dragons?”
Damian’s eyes somehow get brighter, and on the day goes.
***
They stop at the elephants last, both of them with an ice cream in their hands.
Tim has only been here once. He came with Dick, years ago, back when he was still Robin.
Dick asked him what his favorite animal was, and he talked for fifteen minutes about dolphins.
Huh, he thinks, maybe he was a child. He looks down at Damian, quiet for the first time since they walked into the park, and thinks, oh, maybe that was it.
“What’s your favorite animal?”
Damian scoffs, “There are far too many to choose from. At the moment… elephants.”
Tim looks up at the sign, exclaiming “Hello! I’m Zitka!”, and he gets it.
“He wanted us to be brothers,” Damian says, voice quiet. “When father was lost, he kept saying it. Whenever I used a certain move, or said something in a particular way, he’d tell me that you did that too. At first I believed him to be comparing us. It angered me. But that wasn’t it.” Damian looks up at him, eyebrows pinched, “He missed you.”
The only thing that keeps him calm is the knowledge that if he cries in a zoo, he’ll be in the tabloids by morning.
“I didn’t…” Tim sighs, staring at his slowly melting chocolate cone. “When I was searching for Bruce, that was it. That was the goal. Find him, everything else came after.”
“A mission.”
“No, Damian, I think it was an escape. Maybe even a deathwish.” Tim shakes his head, “I was angry that Dick took the mantle from me, gave it to someone who hated me. It felt like a betrayal.”
Tim can see it, the conflict on Damian’s face, stuck between defending his favorite brother, or acknowledging that Tim was hurt. Tim is just about to give him an out when he says, “I don’t hate you anymore.”
“I don’t hate you either,” Tim tells him after a pause. He watches Zitka grab a trunkful of hay as children watch and laugh. “I’m not him.”
“Obviously,” Damian says, like it’s offensive. “You’re Timothy.”
Tim thinks his heart starts beating, then, and he’s not a ghost anymore.
He kneels down, so he’s looking up at Damian. He’s going to apologize. For the hit list, for the hostility. For not being a better brother.
Damian beats him to it, “I apologize for my actions when I first arrived at Gotham.”
Underneath him, the world tips. Tim blinks up at Damian, and then smiles.
He doesn’t do it because of guilt, or because he can never say the words to his oldest brother, or because he knows Bruce will be proud when they get home. He does it for himself, because Dick is dead, and Tim is here.
“I forgive you.”
When Damian hugs him, Tim wraps his arms around his shoulders and looks up.
The sky is blue.