Chapter Text
Seeing as how they had gotten closer recently, Tim deigned Damian worthy of following him to his room.
Their plans involved sitting in silence together. Parallel play, of a sort. Cass was the only other in the manor who understood the benefits of doing such a thing. What better way to bond than to sit side by side without saying a word?
In all honesty, Damian was surprised that Tim trusted him enough to let him into his bedroom. After all of their history, what with the murder attempts and all that, Damian would've been surprised if Tim would ever have trusted him again.
Yet, here he was. Following Tim somewhat like a lost duckling through the twisting halls of the manor.
Damian stared down at Tim's shoes, feeling somewhat unworthy of being here. He didn't deserve this. He was an asshole, a demon. A killer.
Then again, Damian had a sneaking suspicion that Tim was, too. Damian heard the League chatter about bases exploding and people dying right around when Tim returned to Gotham after his extended absence. Tim was arguably one of the Robins who believed in Bruce's moral code the strongest, so it was hard to believe, but at the same time, sometimes Tim had this cold look in his eyes that sent a chill down even Damian's spine...
"Wait. Where are we?" Damian questioned, pausing outside of the room Tim was about to bring them in.
"My room?" Tim responded, disgruntled by the disruption of his cherished silence.
"No, this--what?" Damian was utterly thrown off. "We are in the guest wing. This is a guest room."
"Yeah, my guest room," Tim clarified, looking at Damian as though he were the weird one here. "I started out as a guest here, remember? The room stuck. It's fine."
Damian stepped over the threshold and scowled.
The room was bare. The walls were the same plain color as the hallway and every other guest room. There was nary a decoration in sight, save for a single photo by the bed of what appeared to be a young Tim with Dick and his parents at the circus.
His desk was clean, neat, practically untouched. A singular photo frame graced it; Tim and his parents, all smiling fake smiles. Not an ounce of warmth in the whole photo.
"What the Hell is this?" Damian hissed. "This is a guest room with two photos in it. Do you even keep your things here?"
"I have my own apartment, Damian," Tim reminded him. "I've just got some spare clothes and a spare suit."
Damian was revolted by his family, nearly nauseous at the sight of their utter failure.
Tim, the boy who kept their family together through everything they'd gone through, was in a guest room.
"This will not do," Damian declared tersely, glaring at the room itself. "Come. We will select you a new room."
"Damian--"
"Come." Damian repeated the word with more force. "Under no circumstances will you be allowed to stay here.
"I--I have my own apartment," Tim protested again, but they both knew it was a weak argument. Tim hadn't slept at his own apartment in weeks. Were Damian any more egotistical, he might believe that it was a direct result of his own lack of disrespect towards Tim as of late, allowing Tim to feel safer at the manor.
It was true that Tim was a creature of habit; the thought of change often seemed to revolt Tim. At the same time, he was the type to grow restless when things had been the same too often. A bland room like that could hardly have been good enough to warrant an attachment.
Damian marched through the halls like a soldier off to war, ready to fight for his brother. His attitude had done a complete 180, he acknowledged internally, ever since he realized what this family was doing wrong.
Damian had believed for the longest time that this was the right way to behave. That Tim was an interloper, someone who didn't belong - statements he believed as a result of the family's demeanor towards Tim. Damian thought it was normal to hate Tim; he assumed the best way to assimilate into the family was to act the same way he perceived them to be, even to go a step above and beyond.
Suffice it to say, he'd been wrong. It had taken that one moment when Damian realized why Tim was so good at lying to Batman. That moment when Damian realized Bruce was supposed to be Tim's father too, and yet, he didn't care as much. That Tim was used to this.
It was only then that Damian compared all that Tim had done to all that had been done for him and realized his mistake.
Damian would've hated it if he was treated this way. A guest room in his own home! What a sorry excuse for a family Tim had.
"Choose one," Damian ordered as soon as they arrived at the family wing.
"Dami--"
"Choose!" Damian ordered, stomping a foot of sheer, unadulterated fury. To him, it was reminiscent of a shockwave of anger running through the ground beneath his feet.
(To Tim, it was like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. But that tantrum was for his sake, so he didn't mind.)
"Alright, fine," Tim conceded, scanning the hallway. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, but it was a necessary sacrifice. He was a family member. He deserved a place among them. Damian knew that now.
Damian told Tim to come find him when he was done and stormed into his own room, slamming the door shut in rage. He'd scarcely been so angry in his life. Why did no one ever ask why Tim had a guest room? Why did they all allow him to believe he didn't belong?
Damian screamed into his pillow and then took a knife to it, shredding the delicate pillowcase and sending the inner stuffing everywhere.
Alfred Pennyworth.
He cleaned every room of this manor, never missing a single surface. He would've known that was Tim's room. Yet he never fixed it. Why? Why?
There was a gentle knock on the door.
"I picked a room," Tim called, tone softer than Damian expected. Hm. Damian might've screamed a little louder than he'd thought.
Damian exited his room and was surprised to find that Tim was standing in the doorway beside Damian's room.
The way the rooms were organized was, for sure, out of the ordinary. Bruce's was the very first in the hall. Beside him, in order, were Cass, Barbara, and Dick. Across from them, starting with the room across from Bruce, were Jason, Steph, Duke, and Damian. The room beside Damian's was unoccupied, but not for long.
Damian felt a warmth starting in his chest and spreading down to the tips of his toes. An involuntary smile tugged at his lips. Tim picked the room next to his. Damian was totally Tim's favorite brother.
"Excellent," Damian declared after clearing his throat to reset his face. "Now we must decorate."
Tim's fondly amused smile vanished. "Um. Are you sure we...must?"
"We must," Damian confirmed, tone grave. It was imperative that Tim personalize his room.
Tim gave in yet again in the face of Damian's determination and allowed Damian to pester him into driving them to one of those stores with home decor items. Damian was under no delusion that he could've convinced Tim if not for the clearly sentimental streak running through Tim's veins at the moment. He was endeared by Damian's efforts, and Damian was taking full advantage of that fact.
The first thing Damian made Tim choose upon their arrival was paint for the walls.
Tim hesitated. Deliberated much longer than was really necessary. Then, finally, he grasped two cans of black paint and said,
"Maybe you could, um, paint some designs over the black or something?"
Damian could've exploded with pride. He refrained from doing so and merely nodded in a very mature and refined manner, agreeing with barely restrained joy.
Tim then moved on to pondering other decorations. A shitty Batman rug that made both of them laugh. Glow-in-the-dark stars for the ceiling. Blackout curtains. A little cat-shaped nightlight - two, actually, which Damian didn't quite understand. Who needed two nightlights? Really, who even needed one? Not grown, mature individuals such as Damian.
Once the decorations were selected and purchased on Bruce's card, they went elsewhere and bought furniture - a desk, a nice gaming chair for maximum comfort, a bookshelf, a filing cabinet for case files and paperwork. Damian could've jumped with glee at the implication that Tim would be storing his work there, too.
Their return to the manor was quiet but brimming with happiness. Even Tim seemed quite satisfied with his haul, eager to put it all up.
Their first order of business was painting the walls. They made it through taping edges, putting down sheets on the floor, and painting one and a half walls before they were interrupted.
"Master Tim, Master Damian, what on Earth are you doing?" Alfred queried, aghast.
Tim dropped his paintbrush immediately. Damian was glad they'd put down sheets on the floor or that would've stained the carpet. But it was disheartening to see how Tim immediately quivered in the face of disapproval, valid as it was when that face was Alfred's. Damian wished Tim would recognize that he had a right to exist without fearing reproach. Damian knew he'd contributed to Tim's expectations of the contrary, though.
"Um, nothing," Tim lied hastily, the words tumbling out of his mouth with ease. His posture relaxed slightly; lying was comfortable to him and it showed. "Damian was just showing me--"
"His room was in the guest wing."
Both Alfred and Tim turned to look at Damian, who had just spoken in a voice that was icy yet still warmer than the way he felt. Alfred had to have known. And yet, Damian needed to intervene for Tim to be placed with the family. The rage boiled inside of him and froze before it could bubble out. What escaped his lips was all frost and chill, cool disdain rather than fiery outrage.
"He had a guest room in this manor, which rather incorrectly implied that he is not a part of this family." Damian clenched his jaw, enraged but controlled. "Thus, I took it upon myself to facilitate his official move into the family wing. Since no one else ever did it."
Damian could tell his jab landed by the way Alfred flinched at his words. Tim's shoulders had drawn all the way up to his ears, posture tense and upset. But Damian needed to understand; why was Alfred complicit in the exclusion of Tim?
"I...I hardly ever even noticed," Alfred finally said. Damian felt like he was clenching his jaw with enough force to knock his own teeth out. "The room was so bare it was like any other guest room, and I pay so little attention, I simply--"
Abruptly, Tim's shoulders dropped and he lurched forward. Alfred's eyes widened as the door slammed shut in his face. Tim's hands were clenched into trembling fists as he stood facing the doorway, expression obscured from Damian's view.
"...I am so sorry, my dear boy," Alfred told him, soft and sad. "I would never have intentionally done this to you. I promise you, you will always have a place in this family, no matter what."
Tim scoffed. "You don't mean that."
"Of course I do, Master Tim, don't you dare presume otherwise," Alfred argued fiercely. "I read through all of your reports when not even Master Bruce does. I know better than anyone what you have done. It changes nothing."
What were they talking about? Damian felt ten years younger, as though he were listening in as his mother and grandfather argued yet again over their plans. He understood just barely enough to be afraid, and that was it.
"...Thank you, Alfred." Tim finally accepted, still unhappy but grateful nonetheless. Grateful for what? Damian wanted to ask as he heard Alfred's receding footsteps. What have you done?
But then Tim turned around and his face was taut with a distinct exhaustion the likes of which Damian had only seen in older veteran assassins that had more blood on their hands than any other.
In the face of that expression, Damian's mouth closed; his tongue shriveled; and he picked up Tim's paintbrush, silently offering it. Tim accepted it with a small, lightly cheered up smile and they resumed their painting in silence, working towards their goal.
When the base coat was done, they did other decor - put together Tim's desk and chair and bookshelf, attached the curtains, applied the stars to the ceiling. Tim continued with moving his things around to his liking while Damian got to work on painting the walls with designs.
Plants and flowers to surround the window. A little galaxy in front of his desk. A family of little birds on a branch by his bed.
Tim grinned every time he looked over and saw Damian hard at work, which had to be a good sign.
The finished product was nice, even to Damian. It looked cozy, and clean, and pleasant.
Tim ruffled Damian's hair. A quiet thanks. Damian huffed with pride. His way of saying you're welcome.
No one could ever deny Tim Drake's place in the family when he was physically with them now, too. Damian was one step closer to his ultimate goal: to reintegrate Tim into the Wayne family.
Tim was Damian's brother no matter what anyone else said.