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It’s a quiet night, they have been especially quiet since he decided to leave the mantle. Tim can admit that it was much more difficult than he thought it would be. The first several nights hell on earth, stomach tight with knots, a guilt impossible to ignore. He felt like he was failing, failing his younger self, his brothers, his team, everyone. Felt like a huge asshole for leaving, not lending a hand to people out when he was trained for it.
It wasn’t possible to be calm, not raise at the little sounds. The paranoia instilled in his veins was a habit impossible to lose. He felt silly, horrible for making his sweet boyfriend deal with him, with his changes in moods, his out-of-place feeling.
He chose him, he chose Bernard, but was it enough? Was it ever enough?
Was it enough when he still couldn’t be all there? When he missed going out, and fighting day and night like the sea misses its marine life in fishing season. He doesn’t know.
He can’t seem to go back to the Wayne household, ashamed, nervous at what he could find there. He knows Bruce agreed; he knows his father has never wanted anything more than for his children to be normal, to be civilians. He has said so and has reached out to invite him to dinner again and again.
He couldn’t. Paralyzed by the words on the screen.
He knows his decision wasn’t wrong. He knows he has always approached the role as something temporary, as a way of helping. He was Robin out of necessity, to not have Batman lose himself, a last-second choice when Dick refused to go back to the mantle started by him, named after the nickname his mother called him.
Honestly, Tim should have outgrown Robin ages ago. He didn't find his own path, couldn't fund a new identity that wasn't wrapped tightly around being Batman's dutiful partner.
Still, it feels like something is ripped inside his chest. A pebble lost in the immensity, shaking and pelting around, an echoing sound.
He isn't Robin anymore, but he can’t never not be Robin, all he accomplished isn't lost. He is Robin by the simple fact that he grew into it, worked to be it, and passed with straight As.
He is more than that.
He just has to tell himself it till he believes it, and having Bernard here, hearing him out, kissing him stupid, is helping.
Watching dumb romcoms, and cuddling against the sofa, a bowl of popcorn shared. They find themselves in this simplicity, this domestic tango, all Saturdays. He is comfortable, relaxed against the cushions, and his boyfriend's sweet, soft scent.
He allows himself to smile, to be happy for once, for no other reason than that. Bernard all coodled against his chest, talking in murmurs about the movie, criticizing the lead's desperation for love, saying how much he hates the toxic male lead. He adores him.
Tim hopes he truly is his one love, that they truly have the kind of love you can see from rooftops. Bernard is safe, is secure, is normal. It’s a person outside of the madness they live in, and he wants to hold it tight, to hold tight what he could have been if not for intruding in the Bat’s grief and trauma.
“Babe, your brother is outside -” Says Bee, jumping in his place, startled by the piercing green eyes outside their window. A confused look was shared, the usual discomfort present at the idea of dealing with Damian, the teenager dropping out of nowhere.
They haven’t talked at all since Tim Drake left Robin.
Tim sighs, burying his nose into Bernard’s golden locks, “Yeah. I see that.”
He doesn't move, still warm and steady with his boyfriend under his grip.
Bernard tsks at him, getting up and out of their way. An angel on earth, truly, “Go talk to him, Tim.”
He complains lightly, having his boyfriend kiss his pout before he deals with whatever bullshit Damian must want. He jumps to his feet when he sees Bernard’s back disappear behind their bedroom door. Approaches the window, moving his shoulders to untense the muscles, a yawn leaving his lips, and he opens it. He knows Damian will enter no other way, too stubborn to ever do things Tim’s way. “Come in.”
His little brother huffs at his command. Criticising how long it took him to invite him in, talking about how disgusting their affection is, a judging gaze around his living room, arms crossed against his chest in anger.
Tim will never understand the way he acts, how he looks annoyed at being here when he chose to do so, doesn’t get him at all.
Being the bigger person and all that, he shows him the way to the kitchen, shows him the stool for him to sit, “Do you want something to drink, Dames?”
“I want nothing from you.”
Tim can already feel a headache growing, that strange, monstrous feeling filling his sternum; he has to tell himself to calm down. Has to reach a compromise with his brain, has to take back a bit of the anger cursing him. The notion of Damian interrupting his date night just to be his petulant self has him losing his mind.
Sometimes, he swears Dick must have the sky won by dealing with this willingly.
“Right, so… why are you at my home then?”
“You left.” He says, and Tim really has to reign back the need to tell him, duh. As if he doesn’t already know what he chose to do.
He goes for being honest instead. Trying to talk civilly with his brother rather than being a little shit and having Damian close off to the possibility of a conversation. He guesses a conversation is what his littlest brother must be searching for from him at this hour, “Yeah, as I told you then, there's much more than being Robin. A whole world, you should try it.”
Okay, maybe he is being a bit petty.
He moves around the kitchen, boiling water for the tea he knows his brother likes to drink. He is nothing if not a good host, at least. Damian scoffs at him. Tim can almost feel how he squints his eyes at him in hatred behind his back. “Drake, you are a fraud.”
He turns around, really looking, taking him in.
“This again?” He can't help but be annoyed at what he sees. He feels like a catfish falling for the bait. He gets mad easily, blood boiling against his chest, he feels about to burst. He wants to get back to cuddling with his boyfriend, and not this nonsense.
“Damian, I don't care. I don't care if you call me a deserter or whatever the hell -”
The boiler whistles in the background, making him halt. He tries a short form of meditation while losing himself in the task of making tea. In a few moments, the storm of feelings is appeased, the warmth of the mug certainly helping his cold hands. Makes the ball of uncertainty detangle itself.
He deposits the mug right in front of his father’s infuriating child. Not expecting anything, Damian doesn’t acknowledge him, or the way Tim knows exactly how many spoons of sugar Damian takes with it. Ungrateful when it comes to Tim.
He knows his brother is preparing; the tirade he will go on will make them fight. Rinse and repeat, forever and ever.
Tim drinks his own mug in anticipation of whatever dagger he will throw his way.
”So, you departed from our legacy to what? To swap fluids with your simpleminded boyfriend?”
He doesn’t rise to it, it’s a lacking attempt. He knows he could do worse if he wanted. Tim feels even a bit disappointed in him. He smiles, “Sure, Dami.”
Tim knows Damian has no problem with Bernard at all, they even get strangely good. So there's something more.
“You are a deserter and a liar - and I hate you so -”
He stops him in his tracks, “I won't change my mind because you are throwing a tantrum.”
“You are a fool. I don't want you to change your mind, imbecile.”
“Damian,” He is getting tired of this, this weird one-sided monologue, “Look, if you want to hate me, hate me. It doesn't matter. You have Robin; you have what you wanted since the beginning. I don't get what you want from me now.”
He continues, a bit lost to the nonsensical argument, “It's been months. I don't get where this is coming from.”
Damian shifts in his seat. Tim can read him as uncomfortable; he doesn't get it. “Timothy, you lied to me.”
“I didn't lie - I don't, what are you talking about?”
“You said,” He starts, and then mumbles, embarrassed at his past outbursts, “You said we could still hang out.”
“And, you have disappeared. You don't - you are ignoring me.” He presents his evidence like a certain truth, the first time Tim sees Damian hunched, timid in his conviction.“You talk about me hating you, but you are a hypocrite, you hate me, Drake.”
Talk about a blow to the stomach, suddenly he feels horrible, like the worst older brother on planet earth - right behind Jason, thank you very much - he needs to mend this, the way Damian looks ashamed talking about it, “I don't, I really don't. Dami.”
“You spend time with Todd, and Richard, and Father. You talk with Cassandra even when she is away.”
It’s an accusation, a wrongful presentation of evidence, he hasn’t done any of that in a long time. He still can see how he came to that conclusion, to the idea of Tim having a grudge just against him, “I haven’t, Damian. I have been… isolated. It’s not just you, I can tell you as much.”
The other hums, sipping his drink, looking way younger than the experiences he has lived through. Unbelieving, doubtful of what he says, truly Bruce’s blood son, “Why then?”
“Honestly, don't know - it wasn't you, I can assure you. Just - it's been hard, trying to be something I haven't been for ages.” He pauses, “Normal, a semifunctional young adult… It's just that I was ashamed of being sad at my own decision. Didn't want to prove myself wrong.”
“Was it the cave you avoided?”
“Yeah, Dami, I wasn't - I don't hate you, I haven't hated you for a while, no - maybe I haven't ever hated you.”
“That's impossible, Drake.” Damian says, cheeks flushed. Having as much emotional intelligence as his father does, but with a light touch of Dick Grayson's teachings there, silver linings, “I have tried to kill you several times.”
“Yeah,” He shrugs, “I have gotten over it.”
He rests importance to that particular issue. He is being truthful and really doesn’t want to make him feel worse. Damian is still a child, the child he sometimes forgets he is. He is his brother, whether he likes it or not, whether they are getting on well or not. He cares.
And honestly, it’s water under the bridge at this point. He has gotten over worse stuff, Damian isn’t even the first sort of brother figure to pray on his demise. Sometimes he wishes he could joke about it, call them losers for failing so miserably at killing him. He is almost like a cockroach that won’t die.
He finds it is still an untouchable topic, the guilt too much, the hatred simmering under, the care feeling fake, it’s difficult having to be the one appeasing his supposed hunters. It’s insulting to them for the prey to be so forgiving. They are a mess.
He hates them. Hates Jason so much that he wants to throw up, likes him so much that he wants to spend all his time just sitting beside him while working on a case, watching him read. Hates Damian and all his strange language, his undignified need to be the best, loves him so much that he offers to be the one to lift him from school every day. Loves him so much that he keeps his drawings on his bedroom walls.
He chuckles at the misunderstanding, swerving to his intended to comfort fast, “Would you believe me if I told you I have always wanted a little brother?”
In response, the other shakes his head in a negative, now drinking what must be lukewarm tea.
“When I was younger, I used to beg my parents for a brother, someone I could play with, you know? Some sort of childish dream of having another person there, to draw and paint and watch movies together.”
He reminisces about it a good amount, dreams of a world where his parents are still here, still trying to show how much they care in the short amount of time they have together. Dreams of a world where they are happy, and a family, and he has a sibling he has seen grow in his sight.
Sometimes he misses his parents badly, when he passes on the sidewalk a woman with the same perfume his mother used, when he is at Wayne enterprises and sees a specific Italian brand on a suit. He pictures Jack Drake there, right in his sight, opening his arms and engulfing him.
The grief never leaves, it just transforms itself, and it gets progressively better. He swallows the knot formed in his throat and continues his reassurances, “Before our first introduction, before it went badly, I was excited, I was so nervous to make a good impression - for you to like me.”
“Timothy-”
“I wanted to be your big brother, and do all those childish things, wanted to show you the ropes of Robin, wanted to connect with you as Dick connected with me in my first years as the Boy Wonder.”
He looks him into his eyes, Damian's are strangely wet, his own not much better. They are such a tangled disaster. They should have solved this ages ago.
Tim seems to be unable to stop now that he has opened Pandora's Box, “But I wasn't Dick, I couldn't be that - because having the Grayson experience is certainly better than the Drake one. And really, who is better than the original?”
“I get it, Timothy. You don't need to-”
“It's funny, I sort of forgot about that… Damian, I am not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I just - I need you to know I care, I like you, even when you are annoying and make my blood boil.”
“Me too. I find you - entertaining.”
He laughs at that, “You are my brother, Damian Wayne. You have to know it. I wasn't lying when I said we could hang out. I just thought you maybe didn't want that. You get on much better with our other siblings than with me.”
“Timothy, I want to waste time on you, don't care about others. I have lived with you, have patrolled with you - the only one of our siblings I have spent a good time with, you are -” His voice gets choked, Damian recalls what Steph called them, how angry he was then, “The big Robin to my little Robin.”
Tim lets the tears fall, he feels so stupid for not having this conversation before, for not seeing his baby brother in this light before. He reaches out, “Dame, please.”
He opens his arms, and the rejection he expects never comes. Damian throws himself into his arms. He holds him closer, sturdy, he doesn't want him to slip from his fingers again, doesn't want to not have this again. He is a big brother, finally.