Chapter Text
“Perhaps I could make a tea with these.” Damian almost sounded contemplative— normal —like he wasn’t poking the toe of his boot at a pile of blood-speckled petals he spent the last two minutes hacking up like an angry, sick cat.
Tim wrinkled his nose. “You want to repurpose your lung flowers?” Wow. That’s a real sentence he actually voiced. Fucking wild. Whatever, Tim wasn’t gonna judge (he was, he so was, but that’s not the point ), he stopped having access to that sort of brain function about four nights ago.
“I wouldn’t drink it,” Damian said, arching an eyebrow that conveyed an unspoken duh, Drake. “I’m merely curious.”
Tim hummed, squinting at the Wayne Enterprise document in his hand. It all looked like squiggles. Distressed squiggles. Little worms. ‘Worm’ would be an interesting typesetting. It could battle to the death with wingdings.
“Drake.” Damian poked a finger at Tim’s ribs. “Tea?”
Right. Tea. Tea… did sound good. Alfred would bring some if they asked. He was far away, though. All the way up eight thousand steps, because Bruce is a glutton for punishment who subjects himself to climbing a billion million kajillion stairs. Maybe they will have to use Damian’s weird flowers for tea. The flowers were really far away, though. And the floor was nice and that meant moving which was ugh and having to crawl over the document pile which admittedly was more comfort-blanket and less work at this point.
Think of the tea, his gremlin head-voice whispered (it sounded like Steph), which was a devastatingly effective argument. Tim rolled to his side with a sigh and squinted hard at the flower pile in the stupid suckass (he needed to spend less time with Jason, holy shit) cave lighting.
Supe blue, his brain supplied. Supe red, it decided after that.
“Damian,” Tim said.
“Yes, Timothy?” Damian said.
“I know nothing about flowers,” Tim said. At least—not now. Not here. Not outside of Poison Ivy wreaking havoc in the Diamond district. All it made him think of was Kon’s suit and his stupid crescent-moon smile and the scrape of kevlar against Tim’s skin whenever Superboy found another reason to scoop Timothy Drake into his arms in some ridiculous rescue.
Damian scoffed, but it lacked bite. “I do not believe they hold any true resemblance to known flowers.” He pinched a petal between his forefinger and thumb. Tim could see it didn’t hold the red or blue hues most of the other. It was almost purple. Not unsimilar to Jonathan Kent’s eyes. (Tim wasn’t going to voice this thought. He liked his torso free of knives.)
“Well. Magic continues to be fucking lawless and logicless,” Tim said, jaw cracking on a yawn.
“Indeed,” Damian agreed, soft enough that Tim thought he imagined it for a second.
Damian sounded…wistful? Almost mournful? Not Damian-normal. (Not that Tim is the best judge of that, but.) There are things Tim needs to be doing. Meetings. Cases. It’s getting a bit more difficult to remember. Lost the moment some shitty sorcerer decided to punish Superman’s family but casting a spell to ensnare those who love them. (Not fair. Not fucking fair. Tim had those feelings locked nicely away, he didn’t need it dragged out. It wasn’t fucking fair to Damian either.) Maybe the flowers are poisonous. Maybe they could make it into tea and dump it on the sorcerer’s lawn; make his grass wilty and gross. Then he’ll,
He’ll.
He’ll—?
“Timothy?”
Tim blinked. He reached up to rub at his eyes with his knuckles. “Yeah?”
Damian’s face filled his vision. He was peering down at Tim.
“Timothy,” he said again. His voice sounded rougher. It matched the blood on his teeth.
“That’s my name,” Tim said dryly.
Damian held out a hand. “Would you like to get on comms and see how quickly we can infuriate Todd with inane commentary about literature?”
Fuck yes. “Yeah. Yes. Dibs on calling Frankenstein a little bitch boy.” Tim grasped Damian’s hand and shot to his feet. Ohhhh. Mistake. The world spun in protest, and he felt himself tipping. Two hands clamped down on his arms, keeping him upright. Tim slammed his eyes shut, focusing on the warmth of the contact. “Why is the world drunk,” he gasped out. The ground wasn’t supposed to move. You could depend on the ground to be there. Trusty floor under your back. Backup for your back when there’s no one to, to—when there’s. No one?
Why would there be no one? Alfred was upstairs. Damian was here. (Hand in hand in fucking pining hell together. Who would’ve predicted that? Not Tim!) Tim’s head tipped forward until it rested against Damian’s shoulder. (He needed to stop getting taller.) His shirt smelled overly sweet, like flowers about to rot. Damian was talking, he realized. His hands were flexing against Tim’s arms, like he wanted to gesture and was fighting to keep them in place. Tim could fall asleep here, maybe. In another universe. Because he didn’t get that here, now. The warm darkness under his eyelids only existed to taunt him.
Tim opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, daring the world to get topsy-turvy again. It was–against all seeming odds–beautifully still. Tim’s huff of laughter was colored with relief. He reached up to briefly circle Damian’s wrists, squeezing once in an unspoken thanks before stepping out of his hold.
“Honestly, Drake. The clone? His taste in leather jackets is atrocious.”
Tim scoffed, settling in the batcomputer chair with a happy sigh. “Glass fucking house, Damian. Jon wears enough flannel to be a stock photo stereotype.” He logged into the computer purely off muscle memory; words were definitely still worms right now.
Damian’s following tut was the closest thing Tim would get to outright agreement. The satisfaction of victory is lost in the onslaught of the coughing fit Damian broke off into. Fuck, Tim should’ve known better; Damian tended to get attacks of whatever-this-shit-is whenever Jon got brought up. Tim kept a tired eye on him until it ended, and bleary green glared back at him.
“Fucking supers,” Tim offered.
Damian’s soft huff felt like bellowing laughter. “Fucking supers,” he agreed, and Tim could hear the way his throat was getting wrecked by this whole mess.
The desktop was a mess, but Tim located two ear pieces by touch and also glaring in disapproval so the tech would get that he didn’t have time for any hiding. (This tactic was almost always 98% effective.)
He was greeted with the sounds of Steph and Jason playing a game of I-spy where ‘billionaire furry’ was the most recent spotted thing. Ha. Average night, then.
Tim frowned up at Damian, who was still standing. He scooched all the way to one side of the chair (it was a ginormous chair) and patted the seat. Damian arched an eyebrow. Tim just stared up at him, and patted the chair again.
“Blink, Timothy,” Damian commanded, scowling as he slid into the chair. A line of warmth against Tim’s side, fighting the chill that settled in Tim’s chest when sleep abandoned him.
“What should we find next?” Steph was saying.
“Competence, perhaps.” Damian chimed in.
And the roar of greetings that rolled over them was a beautiful cacophony of white noise.
The verbal sparring that picked up washed over Tim in a wave of comfort. He felt his lips pull up in a small smile.
He would sleep here. If he could.
Right now, though?
He didn’t really mind being awake.