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If he were Dick, he’d swoop in and grab Damian in a bearhug, tell him how special and important he is, and make him feel like the only person in the world.
If he were Jason, he’d probably roar up on a motorbike, shout something stereotypically badass like “Get on, we’re going for a ride” and take Damian out for a wild night of debauchery and explosions.
If he were Bruce, he’d actually fucking be here, and let the city look after itself for once in its history.
He doesn’t know how many of the others Alfred called first, but he’s the one that’s here.
Tim rubs the back of his neck. Damian’s birthday present rubs uncomfortably against his chest in his jacket pocket. He’s not had the best day (to put it mildly) and he’s not sure he’s going to be good company tonight, but apparently he’s the only company Damian is going to get.
Alfred directs him to the Cave. The look in his eyes is unutterably sad. He’s taking Bruce’s failings personally.
Tim remembers Alfred bringing him a birthday cake in the Cave. He remembers Bruce getting twitchy about the smoke from the candles interrupting whatever analysis they were doing that night.
Damian steps out of the showers at the side of the Cave and reaches for his Robin uniform. He stares in confusion when his hand finds a suit instead.
Tim clears his throat.
Damian pulls himself up to his full height, an inch over Bruce now, and glares at Tim.
“What have you done with my uniform?”
He’s impressive to look at. He’s not as broad as Bruce, his musculature running more towards a dancer’s physique, which is probably Dick’s influence on his training. White scars stand out on his bronze skin. He doesn’t have as many as most of them thanks to his League training, but the ones he does have tell a story of near-lethal wounds.
“You’re not going out tonight,” Tim says. “At least, not yet.”
“I have to,” Damian says. “Arkham-”
“Is under Bruce’s thumb, and Nightwing and Hood are handling the rest.” Tim folds his arms and leans against the lockers. “You’ll break Alfred’s heart if you go out like it’s a normal night.”
The A word is enough to give Damian pause.
“You can always patrol after,” Tim adds.
Damian’s posture shifts. He’s still stood straight - as far as Tim knows the teen doesn’t even know how to slouch - but there’s something like defeat in his body language now. He looks… sad.
Tim’s heart clenches. He knows that feeling too well. It’s not the first of Damian’s birthdays Bruce has been unavailable for, but it’s not a blow you can shield yourself against. Tim had taken it for granted when Bruce had failed to acknowledge some of his birthdays - if his parents didn’t prioritise their son’s day why should it even be on Batman’s radar? - but he remembers when Dick found out, how ashamed he’d been. Bruce had never forgotten Dick’s birthday, or Jason’s.
Well, not until Jason died, and wasn’t that the whole point? Celebrating the living took a back seat then.
It didn’t help that it wasn’t Tim’s fault. He’d still carried the weight of not being important enough - not making himself important enough - to have his birthday acknowledged. It felt like a personal failing. Usually, when his parents left a gap in his life he'd been able to fill it with Batman and Robin, if it was something that mattered. Alfred and Dick think it matters, so they pity him, but Bruce knows better.
He hides the date from his friends (though neither Kon or Bart celebrate their birthdays with any regularity, which helps) and even now does his best to avoid bringing it up. If everyone forgets, then Tim can forget, and it can’t hurt him if he doesn’t remember it. There’s enough painful anniversaries in his life without getting stuck on trivial things like the time his parents forgot to even call.
Is he being an asshole? If he were Damian he’d hate to have Tim here, inserting himself in the place that was rightfully Bruce’s, rubbing his nose in it all. Maybe he should just let Damian go out on patrol, and justify the choice to Alfred later.
No one forgets Alfred’s birthday.
It’s too late to back out now. Damian is already half dressed. It’s a new suit. Tim can tell because it fits him; Damian’s finally stopped growing, according to Alfred, but his wardrobe still contains a mish mash of items that fit just fine a few months ago and now look like they're trying to strangle him.
Tim steps forwards to knot Damian’s tie without thinking. Damian’s hands hover awkwardly for a moment before dropping to his sides. Tim pauses, wondering if he’s overstepping. Of course Damian can do his own tie. But it’s something small, something from their relationship from before, when it was angry and fraught and frightening, but Damian was still a child and Tim could still see over the top of his head.
“Lucky I can still reach,” Tim says mostly to himself as he smooths the silk down.
“We are honouring the booking at Shoots?” Damian asks.
Tim nods. “I know how hard it was for Alfred to make it in the first place. I’m looking forward to it.”
Damian frowns. “It’s vegetarian.”
“I’m not Jason.” Tim smiles at Damian. “I checked out the menu online, Damian. It looks really exciting. And I could probably use the vitamins.”
Damian huffs at him. They’re back on familiar territory. “The five food groups are not Chinese, Indian, Mexican, Italian and cheese, Drake.”
“You’re forgetting “just add water”.”
“I’m doing you the favour of pretending that cuisine doesn’t exist.”
“Well, we’ll be eating well tonight, anyway.”
He’s brought the Ferrari because he knows it’s Damian’s favourite of his cars. He even had it valeted. It’s more attention grabbing than he’d like, especially after facing the paparazzi outside Wayne Enterprises every time he’d entered or exited the building today, but since he’s not even meant to be at the restaurant tonight he’s hoping they’ll get away with it.
They don’t.
Of course, the press want Bruce. He’s the other half of this breaking news story, and the press think he’s avoiding them. He isn’t; Tim knows he spent the day in costume at Arkham, like he’s spent most of the last week, providing much needed support to the skeleton staff trying to hold things together there.
Frankly, Tim thinks Bruce has taken the easy way out.
Cameras flash as they pull up. He regrets keeping the top down for the drive. The reporters loom over him, shoving cameras and microphones into his face. Damian scowls at the reporters pressing against the driver’s side of the car, preventing Tim from opening his door. He's trapped.
“Mr Drake! Mr Drake!”
“Timothy!”
“Mr Drake-Wayne!”
“What do they want?” Damian hisses under his breath.
Tim realises Damian hasn’t seen the news. God, this is just going to make the day even worse for him. Even the press don't care about Damian’s birthday. It’s salt in the wound.
The reports are so focused on Tim that Damian's exit route is relatively clear. He gets out of the car and holds his door open so Tim can slide across the seats and get out on Damian’s side. Damian’s height and bearing make it easier for him to bulldoze through the crowd, Tim tucking in close behind him.
“Mr Wayne!” Vale sticks her dictaphone into Damian’s face. She’s lucky to keep her arm. “Happy Birthday! How nice of you to celebrate it with Tim Drake, under the circumstances. Would you like to comment on today’s news?”
She knows Damian doesn’t know.
“Miss Vale,” Tim snaps, stepping out from behind Damian. “We have a reservation to keep.”
“Bruce Wayne has a reservation,” she says. “Has the news caused a rift in the family? Why are you here instead of him?” She turns back to Damian. “Are you taking sides?”
“There are no sides to take,” Tim says. “It’s a bureaucratic error.”
“Yes,” Damian says. “We are giving it precisely the attention it deserves, which is none.”
Damian can bluff with the best of them, which Tim appreciates.
“So where is Bruce Wayne?”
Fortunately, they are nearly at the door, having backed Vicki Vale into the wall beside the entrance. She tries to edge sideways to block their entrance to the restaurant, but Tim goes left and Damian right and she’s left standing in the doorway with both of them already past her.
“I demand an explanation,” Damian says, keeping his voice low.
The host beams at their scowling faces.
“Someone has leaked your reservation list,” Tim says, putting the weight of the whole day’s anger behind it. “It is unacceptable.”
Another member of staff comes to take their coats.
“We can go somewhere else,” Damian says, managing to combine threatening the host and sympathising with Tim in a single sentence.
“We will investigate immediately,” the host quails. “I… the manager. I’ll fetch.”
“Just seat us,” Tim says.
It’s not the right mood to start a birthday dinner in.
#
Damian plucks the serviette from the table and lays it over his knees. He lays his hands in his lap, where they are hidden by the table, and clenches both into tight fists. He relaxes, tenses them again, relaxes, tenses.
It works better when he knows who it is he wants to punch. He’s got quite a list right now, but clearly Tim needs someone punching on his behalf, and Damian wants to know who.
The manager bustles over with a bottle of complementary champagne and an apology. He promises them wine pairings (“no need to worry about ID here, eh gentlemen?”) and complementary dessert and the head of the traitor on a platter. Neither of them pay him much heed.
Tim dismisses him with a flick of his fingers.
It’s a set menu, so at least they don’t need to worry about being interrupted again until the food starts coming out.
“Are you going to tender an explanation?” Damian asks when they’re finally alone.
Tim sighs. “Are you sure? It’s your birthday. It can wait until tomorrow.”
“Apparently not.”
Tim spreads his hands. “I’m not your brother.”
“I asked for an explanation. Don’t be coy with me, Drake.” Damian scowls at him.
Tim pauses, gathering his thoughts. When he finally starts speaking again, he paces his words carefully, eyes on Damian. “There’s some error in the way the adoption paperwork was filed. I am not and never have been adopted by Bruce Wayne.” Tim puts his hands on the table, palms down, and waits for Damian’s reaction.
His hands are in fists under the table again, but he feels more like he’s trying to hold on to something than bracing him to land a blow. His world is shifting on its axis.
“It’s just paperwork, Damian,” Tim says. His voice is pitched low, presumably to keep the other patrons from overhearing, but it’s a soothing tone. “I’ll speak to Bruce and we’ll get it straightened out as soon as the security situation at Arkham is resolved.”
“You’re my brother,” Damian says. To his shame, his voice catches in his throat, and he sounds like he’s pleading.
Tim nudges his knee under the table and puts his foot over Damian’s.
“Yes,” Tim says.
Damian’s fists unclench and his breath starts coming more easily.
Tim is his.
It's going to be fine.
“You don’t think there’ll be any fallout from this? Just the press to deal with?”
Tim toys with the stem of his champagne flute.
Damian narrows his eyes. “What?”
“I was escorted out of Wayne Enterprises this morning.”
And Damian’s hands are fists again. He’s half out of his seat, ready to storm down to the tower right now. He knows who he wants to hit now. The board. The whole board. He'll make them line up and take it, one at a time.
“Damian,” Tim hisses, “Sit down.”
Damian hovers.
“You can’t do anything about it now,” Tim says.
Damian drops back into his seat with an audible thump.
“You are being altogether too reasonable about this,” he snarls.
“Oh, you can believe I wasn’t this morning. But being unreasonable isn’t going to fix it, and it’ll be easier to handle the fallout if we stay calm now.”
Damian snatches his champagne from the table and downs it in a single swallow. He reaches for the bottle to refill it, but suddenly there’s a sommelier at his elbow, deftly removing the damp glass from his grip and topping up both of their flutes. Despite his rage, Damian finds space within himself to be impressed at that man’s speed and silence. He would make a good assassin.
“I will fix this,” Damian growls.
“It’s not on you to fix, Damian.” But there’s a flush to Tim’s cheeks and a smile gracing his mouth for the first time this evening. “The sentiment is appreciated, though.”
“Tt. They cannot remove you from Wayne Enterprises. Even if it is not your inheritance, at this moment in time, it is mine, and I won’t have it. You have added over five million dollars of revenue to Wayne Enterprises in the last four years, by leading on Research and Development, by personally headhunting talent, and by introducing mergers and acquisitions. Your staff retention is higher than almost any other department. You are a valuable member of Wayne Enterprises and I won’t allow you to be removed.”
Tim is blinking at him. Damian realises his voice has been getting progressively louder and people around the restaurant are starting to take notice. Well, let them. Drake is too reticent about raising his own profile.
“I didn’t realise you’d been paying that much attention,” Tim admits.
“Your successes are our successes.”
Tim stares down at the table, fingers entwined in the cloth, and presses his foot over Damian’s again. It is, for Tim, an extravagant display of public affection. When he looks up, the flush is back in his cheeks and he's blinking very rapidly. He's touched by Damian's support. Damian makes a note to be more explicit about championing his brother in other areas as well.
“You are my brother,” Damian says earnestly, but the word doesn’t feel as right on his tongue as it did earlier. It feels too small to encompass their relationship now, too fragile. It is inconceivable that brotherhood could be taken away from them, but it has, even if it is just a technicality, and Damian needs something more permanent to build on now. “You are… You are mine, regardless of relationship. Of paperwork.”
“You are mine too,” Tim says.
He looks like he’s going to say something else, but there’s a suggestion of movement next to the table and they both look up to see a waiter and the sommelier.
“The amuse bouche this evening is a globe of Caesar salad, a reduction of gazpacho, and a miniaturised pizza.”
The waiter lays out a small tray with three spoons on in front of each other them. The gazpacho is a thick red gel, the caesar salad is a gelatinous ball, and the pizza is a mini pizza, like something from a child’s birthday party. Each is designed to be eaten in a single mouthful.
The sommelier steps forward to pour the last of the champagne into their glasses. He shares a little story about the vineyard and tells them the grassy notes will complement the caesar salad, while the citrus will cut through the gazpacho and the biscuity afternote sits well against the pizza. He has the cadence of an audiobook narrator, and for 75 seconds everything else fades into the background, and Damian relaxes into his seat. It’s his eighteenth birthday. He’s in a place he’s wanted to come for months, with someone important to him, and a room full to staff willing to cater to his every whim. The world outside falls away, replaced by a sunny French vineyard, chickens pecking at fallen grapes and wood pigeons cooing nearby.
It’s possible they’ve drunk the champagne rather faster than ideal.
The reduced gazpacho is an intense mouthful of rich and spicy tomato. The salad is a refreshing bubble of bitter greens that pops on his tongue. The pizza is… a mini pizza.
“I don’t really get it,” Tim says after eating his. “The pizza.”
“No. It’s pleasant, but it’s not as elevated as the others. Still, two out of three is a promising start.”
“Definitely.”
The spoons disappear as soon as they are empty, and they sit quietly until the waiter reappears with a pair of black slates. The starter is confit egg yolk and powdered tomatoes with a seaweed crispbread and black olive tapanade. The crispbread is in the shape of a domino mask.
The sommelier returns with a white rioja, chosen for its depth of flavour to complement the richness of the egg, and with a brief segue into the history of Spanish wine making and why it is so important to Shoots to find wines that honour that history without using isinglass.
Tim frowns after he’s gone. “Isinglass? Where they take the hobbits?”
“Tt. Fish guts. Used in most wine and beer as part of the clarification process.”
Tim stares at the glass in his hand. “It genuinely never occurred to me that wine might not be vegetarian.”
“Everything the family purchases now is,” Damian says. “Some of the older vintages in the cellar presumably aren’t, but father knows my feelings on those.”
“And beer too?”
“A lot of beers, yes.”
“You’re not even old enough to drink. How do you know this?”
Damian gives the glass next to his plate a pointed look. “It is relevant to me.”
They make neutral conversation for the next few courses, enjoying deep fried goats cheese, parsnip soup, beetroot five ways (including a beetroot wine), and a towering construction of potato lattice work laced with micro herbs and filled with a celeriac and apple foam.
Wine keeps appearing at a steady pace, enough to keep both of them buzzed without pushing either past the line where they might become an embarrassment to the restaurant. Damian is becoming quite attached to the sommelier. He’s not much older than Tim, and moves so fluidly, and his voice is so melodic, and, well.
He may have said more of that out loud than he realised.
Tim grins conspiratorially.
“I agree,” he says. “I bet you could get his number, if you tried.”
Damian shakes his head. The room is glowing and he feels like he’s slightly out of sync with himself.
“I prefer not to engage in romantic relationships.”
“Still?”
Damian squirms under Tim’s gaze.
“Still,” he confirms. “Besides, flirting with the staff is Grayson’s purview.”
“Flirting with anything that moves is Grayson’s purview. And being flirted with.” Tim hums under his breath. “There may be upsides to suddenly being unrelated.”
“You can’t,” Damian says, mouth falling open.
Tim laughs at the expression on his face. “I won’t,” he says. “But you have to admit, that ass.”
Damian knows he’s blushing, but he’s too intoxicated to control the reaction. He’s had dreams about that ass that left him sweaty and ashamed and in no doubt about his orientation. It’s not easy hearing Tim joke about it.
Tim reaches across the table and clumsily pats Damian’s hand. He might have more experience with alcohol, but it’s balanced out by his smaller frame. His hand is hot on Damian’s, and he gets distracted comparing the size of their fingers. It’s funny seeing his normally tightly wound brother - not brother - drunk.
Damian is… not sober. If he’s honest with himself.
“Everyone’s had a crush on Dick at some point,” Tim says. “It’s very normal.”
“He’s my brother,” Damian says miserably. “He’s my Batman.”
“Is that why you’re so determined to stay celibate?”
Damian twists his hand under Tim’s, traps Tim’’s forefinger between two of Damian’s. Tim tugs playfully, but he can’t free himself. Damian is the superior.
“No,” says Damian. “I don’t want to be distracted from the mission.”
Tim yanks his hand back. Apparently Damian is not superior, because he rocks forwards and nearly knocks his wine glass over.
“No! Damian, you can’t think like that. That’s what’s wrong with Bruce. It’s bad.”
Tim looks so sad Damian feels compelled to swallow his automatic defence of his father.
“I am scared that it’ll be like with Jon again,” he admits.
“That you’ll get hurt?”
“That I’ll cause hurt.”
“Oh, Damian.”
“You haven’t been in a serious relationship since Brown,” Damian points out. "I mean, one you meant to be in." Tam remains something of a running joke in the family, even now Tim has come out. Of course, many of Tim's entanglements with the opposite sex were passive on his part, whether it was Rose tying herself to Tim's bed or Lynx making out with Red Robin while they fought. The pattern was obvious, in retrospect.
“Touche.” Tim draws idle patterns on the tablecloth with one finger. “Though in my defence, between school, work, Red Robin and your grandfather, I’ve been too tired to even think about it.”
“Grandfather is still sending people after you?”
“It averages twice a month, but he’s been ramping up recently. I’m beginning to think he wants me to flunk out of college, but I don’t know how that would benefit him.” He flashes Damian an odd smile. “It’s almost a good thing I’m off the hook at WE for a while. I might actually make it through my midterms if I only have ninjas and evil clowns to worry about.”
“You are entitled to the same paid time off as any other member of staff,” Damian says. “Don’t let father pressure you into not taking it. You do not need to be unemployed to prioritise your school work.”
“Oh, there's no pressure from Bruce. I haven’t seen him in two weeks. I keep thinking…” Tim sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “It’s just me, Damian. I put the pressure on myself. It's who I am. And who he is. I don’t know why, after so many years, I still think he’ll even notice. He doesn’t care how I do at college or what I bring in for Wayne Enterprises. I don’t know if he even sees what I do for the night shift any more.”
“His focuses has been getting tighter,” Damian says. “He feels like he’s losing his grip on the city.”
“The tighter your grip, the more slips through it.” Tim takes another sip of wine. “Like this adoption thing. It’s a move against WE, I know it is, but I need more time to figure out who. LexCorp? Star Labs? Daggett Industries? We won’t know who stands to benefit until they make their next move, by which point it might already be too late. The stock is already very shaky, and Bruce’s failure to put out a press release isn’t helping.”
“I will do it tomorrow. I can forge father’s signature. If a conference is required, we can bring Grayson and Cain in too, and make a point about family.”
“It’ll fall flat without Bruce.”
“All father has to do is turn up. If it comes to it, we could use your Martian to cover for him.”
“Don’t turn into him, Damian.” Tim’s voice is low and sad, his gaze on his wine rather than Damian. “Don’t let the mission make you someone the family has to strategise around.”
The weight of Tim’s request presses on Damian. He worries often about letting his father down by not being a good enough Robin, but there are other people he cares about, and other ways to let them down. The pressure is suffocating, but Tim bears a similar burden for less reward. Damian knows he needs to carry his fair share.
“I promise,” Damian says, with all the gravity of a blood oath. To make up for the lack of a more formal binding, he raises his wine glass. Tim chinks his against Damian’s, and they both drink.
Tim puts his glass down empty, so Damian drains his. Earlier the wine had taken the harsh corners off the world, but it’s dragging him to a more melancholy place now. He struggles to find another topic of conversation.
Before he can think of one, a cake is placed between them on the table. It’s dark green, with what looks like white frosting on the top and in the centre, and a red jam. There’s a candle on top.
“Finally, a savoury victoria sponge. Basil sponge, ricotta frosting, and a sun dried tomato jam.”
Damian doesn’t want to be ungrateful, but he thinks he’d rather have had a normal victoria sponge. Alfred makes his with strawberries from the grounds.
“Would sir like to make a wish?”
Damian wouldn’t. He’s not a child. That’s the whole point of this ludicrous ceremony.
He licks his thumb and finger, reaches over, and pinches the flame out. The waiter is nonplussed. Tim chuckles.
“Thank you,” Tim dismisses the waiter.
The sommelier reappears a final time to bring them both a glass of limoncello.
“Would sirs like to order coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Tim speaks for both of them. Damian has never heard Tim turn down coffee in his life. His brother must be very drunk indeed.
“We should request a taxi,” Damian says, downing his limoncello.
Tim nods. “Where to?”
Damian considers the savoury cake.
“The coffee shop on campus, how late does it stay open?”
#
Damian wanders around Tim’s apartment, checking the windowsills for dust and sink for limescale. He seems happy enough on his little tour, and Tim thinks it’s cute that his baby brother is so invested in the standards of the maid service he hired for Tim.
“It’s much easier to keep clean during the week,” Tim admits. “If I have a dirty dish there’s actually space in the dishwasher for it, and trash fits in the cans.”
“Maintenance is easier than deep cleaning.” Damian inspects his fingertips, and lets out a satisfied hum Tim suspects he isn’t even aware of. “They are doing an adequate job.”
“More than,” Tim says. “I mean, look, I have enough clean plates to offer you one for the muffin and one for all the bits you pick out of it.”
Damian clucks his tongue at him. “You are not in a position to criticise my eating habits.”
Tim has peeled the paper from the pomegranate and pistachio muffin and set it on a side plate, accompanied by two saucers. Coffee is percolating for both of them, and he’s found a milk jug for Damian’s cream so he can add it to taste. That’s how nice he’s being to Damian for his birthday (even if there’s only half an hour of it left) - he’s willing to let Damian adulterate the best thing Tim has ever put in his mouth.
He was going to carry everything through to the sofa, but Damian joins Tim in the kitchenette instead. He leans his long body against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankle. His hip hits the work surface at the perfect angle to be comfortable, and Tim is a little jealous.
“Do you want me to sing happy birthday?” Tim teases.
“Don’t be ludicrous,” Damian says. “For whose benefit?”
Tim considers doing it anyway, but Damian is already attacking the muffin.
“Has it been okay, this evening?” Tim asks softly. “I know it’s not what you planned.”
Damian’s shoulders draw up. There’s a beat, he takes a breath, and he relaxes again. It makes Tim’s heart clench to watch him control himself like this, even after they’ve had so much to drink, but that’s who Damian is. Controlled. Controlling. Sometimes it seems like everyone else is trying to change that about him, trying to make him relax and loosen up, to let things go, but Tim is the only one who can really empathise with him. He wouldn’t change Damian, all his sharp edges and hard lines, for the world.
“I don’t like it when plans change,” Damian admits. “But I think this evening has been preferable to the original.”
“Oh?”
So sue him, Tim’s fishing for compliments. Damian knows it, and he smirks.
“Since your weak intellect requires me to spell it out: your company is not unpleasant to me, Drake, though I understand with your inferior powers of observation that may have escaped you thus far.
"Additionally…” Damian pauses to fiddle with a pistachio nut. He’s building a small pyramid of them on the saucer. Triangle based, not square, which means it’s lacking structural integrity and the nuts keep sliding away from the summit.
Tim waits, letting Damian find words in his own time. The nuts are a distraction for his hands while his mind works. A stim, in a way, and it’s a sign of how relaxed Damian is around him now that he allows Tim to see him fidget like this.
“It would have been awkward with father,” Damian says eventually. “Things have been, since he found out my, ah, ‘preferences’ from the alien, rather than me.” He bites a nut in half, delicately, to make a point for the pyramid’s top. “Also, he would have had us rush dinner, so he could be out in the city.”
Coming out to Bruce and the family had been one of the most excruciating moments of Tim’s life - and he still hasn’t managed to persuade Dick that he and Kon aren’t a thing - but Damian’s coming out had been a verbal misstep by Clark and an increasingly elaborate investigation by Bruce. No one wants to be outed by a combination of Superman, facebook’s privacy settings, and the fact the Titans really need to do laundry more often if they don’t want Batman analysing their sheets for DNA samples. Tim doesn’t know the specifics of the conversation Bruce had with Damian, but he knows they haven’t patrolled together since.
Tim nudges Damian’s foot with his. He’s not sure when this became A Thing between them, but it’s nice to have a private display of affection between them. Dick is a hugger, Steph high fives, Jason has very recently starting doing finger guns to everyone else’s complete bemusement (Bruce scowls whenever he does it, so that’s probably why) and Cass likes to play with people’s hair. Bruce shakes hands.
Somehow he and Damian, the least touchy of the family, have landed on this as their awkward turtle compromise. There’s no baggage to feet, not like there is to handshakes and high fives and hugs. It’s just their Thing.
Even if he did become hyper aware in the restaurant that he was essentially playing footsie with his brother.
Even if that isn’t stopping him from doing it again now.
Even if Damian is doing it back, wiggling his toes under Tim’s.
“Bruce is an inherently awkward person,” Tim says. “He likes surprises even less than you do. I’m not going to tell you it’ll all be okay, because there’s a chance it won’t, but I think the odds are higher he’s reacting to the method rather than the message.”
Damian knocks his pistachio pyramid to rubble.
“The situation is not presenting a compelling argument for being more open with him about private matters,” Damian says, scowling. “If anything else arises, I shall communicate it by letter.”
Tim smiles and steals one of the pistachios that’s escaped its saucer. “That sounds like a good plan.”
Damian tears a piece from the muffin and eats it. Some of the tension is easing out of his posture again. He runs his big toe along the side of Tim’s foot. Tim nearly unbalances as he jerks his leg back. Damian raises an eyebrow.
“Tickles,” Tim says, rubbing his foot against the side of his leg to chase the ghost of the sensation away. Though most of the alcohol has burnt off since they left the restaurant, he’s still a little buzzed, and his co-ordination isn’t all that.
“Only if you allow it to,” Damian says.
Tim roles his eyes. “Speaking of this evening, I still haven’t given you your birthday present.”
“You? Oh!” Damian is blushing. “I thought- But of course, that wasn’t the plan.” He’s adorably confused by the idea of a gift, and Tim hopes it lives up to Damian’s exacting expectations.
Tim holds out an envelope, a little scuffed from an evening spent in his jacket pocket but not creased.
Damian brushes crumbs from his fingers and wipes his hands on a dishtowel next to Tim’s sink.
He opens the envelope by sliding his thumbnail under the flap, loosening the glue on the first pass and opening it properly on the second. He takes out the contents, and places the now empty envelope into his back pocket before looking at the card.
It’s one of the first photos Tim ever managed to get of Batman, over a decade ago now. Bruce is in silhouette on the roof of Wayne Tower, dawn breaking behind him. Steam rises from the city, white mist between the looming black buildings, and there’s a sense of watchful peace to the image.
“Oh,” Damian breathes.
He opens it, and Tim watches his eyes track over the writing inside. He’s included the usual birthday wishes, but his real gift is the list of coordinates, dates and times.
Damian brushes a finger over one, about a third of the way down. “The Opera House?”
Tim nods.
“And this is Wayne Tower. And this,” he taps it, “the art gallery.” He cocks his head to one side. “A scavenger hunt?”
“No,” says Tim. “At least, not in the traditional sense.”
There’s something about scavenger hunts that feels too Riddler, these days.
“But places to be.”
“Yes.”
“The times are mostly dawns and dusks.” Damian purses his lips. “Good times for certain qualities of light. I should bring my easel?”
Tim nods. “I know it’s a little weird, but I remember you commenting on some of my photos, and I thought you might like the chance to capture the views for yourself. Gotham is probably the most beautiful city in the world, if you know how to look at it, and well.” He shrugs. “I know you haven’t decided yet, but if you leave for college, and I think you’d benefit from it, you might want to take some of that beauty with you.”
Damian looks at Tim then. Really looks, his whole attention on Tim, like he’s seeing something outside the normal spectrum of light. Tim is pinned under his gaze. His heart is beating slowly but powerfully, his every vein throbbing, and he wonders if Damian’s is in sync.
The coffee machine beeps. Damian breaks eye contact, and busies himself putting the card back in the envelope.
Tim grabs a pair of matching mugs from the cupboard. They’re from an old Christmas set he found in a thrift store, white with a delicate border of red robins. Damian looks at them, but doesn’t comment. Tim pours them both a cup of aromatic black liquid, leaving an inch at the top of Damian’s cup so he can add cream.
“Why did you turn down coffee at the restaurant?” Damian asks, reaching for another muffin crumb and popping it into his mouth. The movement is unusually clumsy for him.
“It’s your fault,” Tim says. “I hope you know that.”
Damian frowns, mouth to one side in a skeptical twist.
“Ever since you sent me that civet coffee, I haven’t been able to drink anything else. Nothing compares.” Tim can’t help but stroke the bag on the side tenderly. “You ruined me for other coffee, Damian. I’ve had to cut down because of you. You only send me enough for four cups a day.”
Damian is trying to maintain the frown, but he’s struggling.
Tim has a revelation.
“On purpose! You only send me that much on purpose!”
Damian shrugs. “I don’t know to what you are referring.”
“Have you even tasted it, Damian? It’s beautiful. It’s spice and chocolate and smooth and bitter and strong and…” Tim trails off, eyes unfocused, mind elsewhere. “Four cups a day isn’t enough, Damian. It’s cruel.”
“You are lucky I found a plantation where the method of production wasn’t cruel, or you would never have had the opportunity to taste it.”
Damian reaches for the cream, but Tim bats his hand away.
“Taste it, Damian. Taste it, and tell me four cups a day is enough.”
#
Tim holds out the mug and Damian takes it from him, their fingers brushing as he does so. He doesn’t know what’s made him so hyper-aware. He wants to blame the wine at dinner, but alcohol ought to have the opposite effect. Maybe it’s the sugar from the muffin? Or something about Tim, something different this evening, that’s swallowing all Damian’s rational thought.
Their gazes are locked, and Damian finds he can’t look away even as he raises the mug to his lips.
“You see?” Tim says. “You see why I’m ruined?”
Damian runs his tongue along his bottom lip, catching a stray drop. He knows the coffee is good. That’s why he bought it for Tim in the first place. The taste brings back the memory of the jungle, Rose asking him why he’s so lost in thought, and inside that memory is the memory of drinking coffee on Tim’s sofa after he broke up with Jon, and inside that is years and years of Tim and coffee and coffee and Tim, one inside the other and another and another, like Russian dolls of remembrance.
Damian takes another sip and lowers the mug. Tim reaches out. His hand hovers just in front of Damian’s face for a beat, then the pad of his thumb runs slowly over Damian’s lip, chasing away a bead of coffee.
Damian’s breath catches in his chest. If he didn’t know better, he’d think this was leading up to a kiss. But he must be fooling himself, he must be confused because it’s been so long, because Tim is his brother-
Except he’s not, now.
He’s something different.
Tim starts to withdraw his hand and Damian’s head follows it. He’s drawing closer, his head is angling down. His eyes are still on Tim’s, watching that steely blue gaze for a sign. For something that will make him stop, turn him away from this path that he knows he shouldn’t be going down. Just because the paperwork is gone doesn’t mean they’re not brothers. Their bond is deeper than paper can contain. Tim’s lips are parting. His face turns up to meet Damian’s.
“Damian! Tim! You here?”
Damian drops the mug.
#
Tim doesn’t even flinch as hot coffee splashes over his ankles. He’s frozen.
Obviously, obviously, he’s misread what was happening there.
He’s had too much to drink.
He hasn’t had enough sleep in forever.
He’s been exposed to some kind of toxin.
He’s literally going mad, right now, this second.
“Oh hey, here you are! You okay? I startle you?”
Dick steps over the spreading pool of coffee and wraps his arms around Damian. Tim stumbles back, trying to get his brain back into gear. Dick is singing happy birthday to Damian and Tim nearly kissed Damian and there’s coffee everywhere (sweet, magical, beautiful coffee) and Tim nearly kissed Damian and Tim’s feet are badly scalded and Tim nearly kissed Damian and it’s nearly midnight and Tim nearly kissed Damian and Tim really wants to kiss Damian.
He grabs a dish towel and starts dabbing at the coffee.
“I brought your uniform,” Dick says. “I thought, I mean, this is dumb, but I thought for old time’s sake, because you’re eighteen now and you’re not going to be Robin much longer, I thought maybe we could patrol together? Batman and Robin?”
Oh, right. Dick’s in the Batman suit. Tim hadn’t noticed.
He looks up. Dick’s beaming at Damian, who’s still got a touch of rabbit in the headlights about him. “Be my Robin, one last time?” Dick asks.
Damian flushes and nods. He looks young again, gazing at Dick like his big brother is his whole world, and for a moment Tim feels a deep twist of jealousy before guilt blots it out.
Dick hands Damian his suit, and Damian bolts for the bathroom.
“Tim, I-”
“Take him,” Tim says, voice tight in his throat. “It’s a great idea. Only… we had a bit to drink at dinner, so keep an eye on him?”
Dick looks down at him in surprise. “Really? It’s his eighteenth, not his twenty first.”
“They grow up so fast,” Tim offers, but he feels sick. He shouldn’t have let Damian drink so much. He shouldn’t have put Damian in this position.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. And it’s not like he hasn’t before. I should have thought, a fancy place like that. B says thank you, by the way.”
“I didn’t do it for him.”
His floor is as clean as he can be bothered to make it. He climbs to his feet slowly.
“I know.” Dick puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Any other night, I’d ask you to come too, you know?”
“Yeah, and maybe he could cut my grapple line, just like old times, too.” It’s so many lifetimes ago it doesn’t feel real. “No, I’m not in a good state to go out. I don’t have the physique to keep up with Damian, drinking. I just want to go to bed.”
“You’re so ooold,” Dick teases.
He is, and Damian is so young.
Damian comes out of the bathroom, suited up. His hood is pulled low over his head. Dick goes over to him, and they make an odd picture, Robin taller than Batman.
“Have a good time,” Tim says.
Outside, the clocks start striking midnight. Damian’s birthday is officially over. It feels like a spell is breaking. Instead of running out of here in rags, Damian’s leaving in armour, but the ball is very much over either way.
They leave via the bedroom window. It faces on to an alley, giving it a veneer of privacy for vigilante purposes. Tim is left in his kitchen, one undrunk mug of coffee taunting him.
Nothing actually happened.
Sure, they came close, or he did, at least, but nothing actually happened.
It’s going to be okay. He, like billions of other people around the world, did not kiss his brother tonight. As long as he never does, he can count himself amongst all those perfectly normal people. And, sure, maybe a lot of them aren’t making a conscious decision to not kiss their brothers-
(and maybe those perfectly normal people are actual brothers, not adopted-unadopted brothers, not two completely unrelated people who apparently aren’t even part of the same family even though they thought they were, who only met eight years ago, who are building an adult relationship from scratch, who have so many secrets in common they don’t even know how to talk to other people any more)
-but Tim’s sure that will pass too. They haven’t kissed. They’re not going to kiss. In a few years he won’t even remember that they came close.
He pours the still warm coffee down the sink, and goes to bed.