Chapter Text
Looking back, Tim didn’t even remember what set it all off.
Maybe Damian had broken into his room again and messed with his things.
Maybe he’d stolen Tim’s case files and tried to usurp his territory again.
Maybe he’d made a snide comment in front of board members, business partners, or polite company.
Maybe it was one or maybe it was all.
Maybe Tim had just been having a hard day and that set it all rolling.
“Do something about this. Now .” Tim ordered. Ordered. He wasn’t sitting around and waiting for something to be done. He was telling and expecting for it to be.
Damian spit something up at him with such vigor Tim could see his spittle fly through the air before continuing to try and tug himself away from him.
Tim stared up at Bruce, without the cowl there were grey bags hanging low under his eyes. Tim could see a spot on his cheek that he’d missed shaving.
Damian squirmed under his hand. Tim had his fist clenched tightly around the hood of his sweatshirt and was only listening with half an ear to all the yelled threats and curses being thrown at him. He’d grown used to it enough to drown it out.
From the way Bruce’s eyes were flickering, he clearly hadn’t.
Normally, Tim wouldn’t press it.
Usually, he had enough patience, enough sympathy to cut Bruce some slack by not bringing every fucking thing to him.
Not this time.
Tim shook Damian like he was a spitting cat, dangling him by the scruff.
“Control your fucking kid-”
Bruce’s eyes suddenly sharpened with clarity, snapping to attention towards Tim. Finally.
“Hey!” Bruce began, rising slightly out of his seat. The batcomputer made the shadows on his face hang longer and darker. “Watch the language!”
Tim stopped. His free hand clenched at his side, shaking.
His language?
That’s what Bruce was worried about? Tim’s language? His potty mouth?
Was he selectively deaf or did he just not hear that laundry list of words that Damian had certainly not learned from him?
Bruce let out a bone-deep sigh, two fingers coming up to massage the bridge of his nose. Tim watched the wrinkles of his forehead furrow deep in exhaustion. There was a slump to his shoulders like Tim’s presence was draining. Like the situation of Damian digging sharp nails into the back of Tim’s hand was draining and exhausting and too much of a hassle to put up with.
Tim felt something inside him pull tight.
“Do something .” He repeated slowly, calmly. Damian’s thumbnail cut deeply into Tim’s wrist, likely trying to force him to open his hand and release his hold on him.
Bruce took a slow, steadying breath.
“Tim-.”
Tim felt his ears fill with static. It was like a white noise machine was set up behind his head. He could see Bruce’s mouth moving, saying his name and speaking at the same speed he always did with his lectures.
He was lecturing Tim.
Again.
Reprimanding him. Scolding him. Punishing him.
Acting like this was Tim’s fault.
Tim thought for a moment, had the time-slowing down feeling where he tried to weigh in. Putting a scale in his mind and weighing it all against one another because if it was always his fault. If Dick always sided with Damian and sent Tim out of the room to cool off. If Alfred always tried to comfort him with snacks and reason with him to not take everything so personally.
If Bruce got annoyed, got frustrated, and tired with Tim any time he tried to bring up old arguments with Damian or demand justice.
If Tim was in the wrong all the time, did that mean they thought Damian was in the right? No matter what he did, what he said, it would be okay?
Damian thrust a sharp kick into Tim’s shins. It stung with the same pain as running into a table too small to be seen and too sharp to avoid. The hit would leave a warm welt of pain, nothing an ice pack couldn’t fix.
Sure Tim understood, a bit. Being told to cool off and just ‘think’ when he got sent to his room made it impossible to not understand the other side.
Damian was a kid. Damian wasn’t raised like Tim, like Dick, or Bruce. Damian had a short temper. Damian had issues he was working through. Damian was making progress, he just needed to have some patience.
Damian. Damian. Damian. It was always about Damian.
Couldn’t Tim have a bad day without getting his head bit off for it?
No. Tim couldn't get angry, couldn’t yell or raise his voice.
Couldn’t punch Damian back in the car or the hall or at dinner, he could only take it.
He couldn’t spend time with just Dick or Bruce, or try to invite them out without having to invite Damian too.
Damian this, Damian that. Always Damian, Damian, Damian.
Tim stopped for a moment and tried to imagine it. What the next few years would look like.
Damian squirmed harder in his hands, a sharp jab was thrown at his face and Tim swiftly tilted his head back to avoid it. Bruce’s tone didn’t change.
Damian would grow older, bigger, stronger.
When Damian hit Tim it wouldn’t just sting, it would bruise. When he cornered Tim he couldn’t just shove him aside. Not if Damian grew to be as big and broad as Bruce. Heck, even Talia had a bit of height over Tim. That temper, those issues he was “working on”, his... hatred for Tim.
It wouldn’t go away. It would get worse. Harder to deal with. Harder to ignore.
Harder to suck up.
Maybe Dick and Bruce were right. Maybe Damian wouldn’t kill him.
A hand clawed for Tim’s face.
But were the two of them really so willing to pin Tim’s life on a ‘maybe’?
Tim looked up, letting his gaze wash over Bruce’s form through his lashes. He could hear Damian say something else beside him but it sounded like his voice was underwater.
Bruce’s attention shifted to Damian, his rant stopping in favor of listening to whatever it was Damian was saying.
He always did that.
Listened.
Never to Tim though.
Bruce was still in his robe, hair still wet from a shower. It was Saturday and Wayne Enterprises was closed for the weekend. So Bruce got to relax a bit more.
Not that Tim could say the same, he had to dial into a meeting with Dick’s PR team in a few hours for an ‘incident’ at the museum opening last week (of course caused by Damian).
Picking up after them day and night. How much longer before they asked him to pick up after Damian as well?
Speaking to Damian’s PR team, organizing his appearances, doing damage control because Damian would inevitably do something wrong. Of course he would, as if he could do anything other than purposefully make Tim’s life harder.
Bruce had restarted talking, his fingers were interwoven and resting on his stomach as he spoke, watching Tim with dull blue eyes.
He looked bored.
Tim felt his fingers clench tighter into fists. One hand dug into the soft skin of his palm, the other into the thick fabric of Damian’s hoodie. His calves tightened so rigidly, that he could feel a tremble in his muscles up to his thighs. His mouth pressed into a thin line, teeth pressed so tightly together he could almost hear the soft grind of them.
Bruce was still talking, shaking his head, and letting his shoulders slump with a sigh. Disappointment.
He paused.
Tim took a stuttering breath through his nose. This was the rest of his life, the rest of his life.
Damian could do anything and Tim’s feelings didn’t matter.
Damian was still screaming beside him.
Loud.
Whiny.
Obnoxious.
“Tim-” Bruce began.
This was the rest of his life. The rest of his life. The rest of his life. Therestofhislife-
“Either he goes or I do .”
The words slipped out without any thought. Tim almost froze at them, his brain spasming alongside his throat as he tried processing what he’d just said. He took a moment to think and peruse through it. Yes.
Either Damian went or he did.
Meeting Bruce’s eyes, Tim could see he’d finally stopped talking. His fingers had pulled away from being intertwined, his shoulders unfolded from their slump.
Bruce was sitting with a straight back against his chair. He didn’t look shocked or surprised. But definitely stunned. Tim had been around him long enough and could spot the small line between his brow. The softened shadow of his bottom lip. The lightened crease of his crows feet.
Tim met his gaze placidly.
“I’m done.”
He was. Tim was tired. He wanted to eat without worrying it’d be poisoned. He wanted to sleep without having to set up traps in his room. Wanted to relax without constantly having to look out for a small figure lurking about.
Tim was tired and done.
He didn’t deserve this.
“Either Damian goes or I do, take your pick.”
Bruce stared at him.
Tim had hardly noticed it through the sound of the Jolly Chimp in his brain banging away in his ears, but Damian had also fallen silent.
Hah. Like father, like son.
Without the constant fighting against his hold, Tim let his grip on Damian loosen, letting all his tugging finally amount to something. Damian slid away from him almost unconsciously. Tim felt his smaller body steadily pull away.
Tim didn’t look at him the entire time, he kept his attention focused on Bruce.
Bruce remained seated.
Tim thought the possibility of losing him would’ve at least constituted a standing-up conversation.
He guessed not.
Bruce lay his hands against the arms of his lumbar support chair. The bats on the ceiling of the cave let out little chirps and squeaks. Tim always thought they sounded a bit like broken dog toys.
Bruce’s mouth opened, a considering light entered his eyes and it swiftly closed again. Bruce didn’t hesitate often.
Tim rarely wondered: if it came down to him or Damian, who would Bruce choose?
Tim rarely wondered because most of the time he already knew the answer. It wasn’t a hidden final jeopardy. It was pretty obvious.
Between him and Damian, who would Bruce choose?
Bruce’s eyes were still red and tired. Tim knew he’d been up late working on the Dufner Case. Tim was supposed to have helped him with it but got sidetracked when he got a break in one of his own files.
It looked like he’d been fine on his own though. Tim let his eyes drift to the subsystem web laid out on the batcomputer. Red virtual strings connecting dots, locations, and people.
Between him and Damian, who would Bruce choose?
Bruce shifted in his seat, hand sliding down from the armrest and to his lap. Bruce’s eyes flickered from Tim to the space beside him. It lingered on Damian a bit longer, something soft tugged at the edges of Bruce’s expression.
Not like when he looked at Tim.
Tim knew.
Between him and Damian, who would Bruce choose?
Tim already knew.
Between him and Damian, who would Bruce choose?
Tim always knew.
Between him and Damian, who would Bruce choose?
Tim turned on his heel, hands no longer clenched at his sides. His fingers were loosely gripping the bottom of his sweater from where it was tucked into his jeans.
Just because Tim always suspected, always knew . Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt less.
And it didn’t mean that Tim wanted Bruce or Damian to look at his face when it settled for him.
“Right. I’m going to get my things.”
Part of Tim wondered if he would hear footsteps follow up after him. If Bruce would call up after him, say ‘wait, Tim’, ‘stop, Tim’, ‘hold on, Tim’.
He didn’t.
Tim didn’t slow down enough to hear if Bruce rose to his feet out of his chair, if he did anything other than watch Tim climb the stairs out of the batcave.
Between him and Damian, who would Bruce choose?
Not Tim.