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When Damian joined the family, everything shifted. Tim’s place, for one. He thought, for a time, he could kind of relate to Jason. Not the murder or even the death by homicide (Tim had died too; it seemed to be an initiation at this point, but his wasn’t that traumatic). But maybe the feeling of being displaced. Of being replaced. He knows it’s not the same, not really, but he takes a small comfort in knowing that someone else at least kind of understands it.
Damian is a small ball of rage and violence, and confidence. False confidence. He’s not sure the others see it, not as clearly. But Tim understands him now, maybe better than even Jason, even though they’ve both tried to kill him.
Damian, like Tim, was not chosen. He wasn’t adopted. He was forced into this situation, into a life that can hardly be called normal, but is more normal than their previous lives, and still so strange. There are new rules and new information to take in. They both had to learn how the new people they lived with would react, their place in the new pack, so to speak.
Tim was forced into being Robin when Dick refused to return, being forced to take up a mantle he’d been curious about but had never really wanted. Forced into a position of mediation during Batman’s grieving.
Damian had been forced into the pack when he had to leave his last. Out of The League of Assassins and into a new family where he had to learn new things, where people treated him so much differently, like Tim. But they were both converging in the middle from two opposite sides of a spectrum. One is a trained weapon taught that he was elite simply because of his blood and upbringing, the other was neglected and taught that he was worth nothing, not even his parents' love.
So Tim tried to be understanding and patient. He knew more than anyone how hard this specific adjustment could be. He really tried. Even reaching out to be friends and to help guide Damian. Explaining how different things in the house worked and how different people tended to react because that’s what he’d had the most trouble figuring out, and he knew Damian wasn’t a bad kid. He had just learned differently.
Hell, part of the reason he left The League was that as he learned and grew his own sense of justice and beliefs parted from his Grandfather's, and he found his father’s, Bruce’s, code to be a better fit. He was still learning about himself along with everyone else.
Still, after the third murder attempt, Tim decided it would be best to just keep his distance. He’d tried. No one could say he didn’t. But he could be assaulted by his own brothers so many times before his patience and mental health start to wane.
Dick tried to help mediate when he was in town, and he tried to come more often to help with Damian. Jason was coming over more often, too, warming back up to the pack, his frail bonds slowly re-strangthening. He’s even formed a very thready one with Tim.
But mostly it was him and Damian and Bruce and Alfred. And Tim just tried to stay out of the way. Damian was right. He was the blood son. He had a right to the mantle, even if Tim had worked so damn hard to earn it after he didn’t even want it in the first place- he tried not to let his resentment show. It really wasn’t Damian’s fault. They were all victims of their circumstances to some degree.
Bruce got injured badly. Dick was stuck in Bludhaven, and Jason was dealing with a new mob that had cropped up. He went out as Batman a couple of times a week to keep up appearances, but it was mostly Tim and Damian patrolling. They’d keep to different routes, but Tim always made sure to stay close, in case Damian needed help.
The angry little bat could take care of himself, certainly, but everyone needed a little help sometimes, and he wouldn’t let another Robin fall onto the “dead” list.
It was during these few weeks that Tim had noticed something weird. First, Damian wasn’t angry at him as much as he was defensive. It was a little hard to tell at first, trying not to be murdered by the kid. But as they worked together more, sat around in the cave, talked about cases and routes, Damian seemed to be less outwardly hostile and more reluctantly cooperative. His defensive posture around Tim seemed to relax a little.
Tim was a bit embarrassed that it had taken him this long to notice. He’d felt threatened by him. He had nothing to worry about. Tim hadn’t been chosen either, but Damian was Bruce’s own flesh and blood. Of either of them, Damian would always be the first choice, Tim had no doubt. It made him a little sad, not that he’d ever admit it, but again, it wasn’t the kids' fault.
The other thing he noticed was that when Damian had his especially irritable or angry bouts, he’d tremble.
Tim, being the dragon he is, hoards things. His photographs. His knowledge. His non-official pack. The knowledge, in particular, is what makes him such a great detective, so good at solving puzzles. He knows things that make absolutely no sense to know, useless and useful alike. And part of that is first aid. Something he’d studied thoroughly when he’d first become Robin.
He was usually backing away from Damian when he got into these angry bouts, and avoided him after, but now he was kind of stuck with him. Fortunately, most of it didn’t seem to be directed at Tim now, but frustrating situations, like when Tim had to step in and help him in a fight.
Okay, so “helped” was more like “saved” and “fight” was more like “ambush”. And Damian was more than a little embarrassed and had lashed out. Tim had tried to assure him that it wasn’t that big of a deal; it happens to all of them every now and again. But Damian was not assured at all, and only became more irritable and defensive the rest of the way back to the cave. He didn’t need Tim’s help! He was a trained weapon! He was better! He had it under control!
He didn’t. He was still a child. It was okay to make mistakes; they had bad intel, and it wasn’t even his fault. And Tim would continue to say so because the words had to get through the kid's thick, traumatised skull eventually. Especially now that he seemed… Tim didn’t want to say he was willing to communicate, but he was less likely to shut Tim down completely.
It was after this, when Tim was patching up a couple of wounds he’d procured, that he noticed that Damian’s movements weren’t as sharp as they usually were. He seemed sluggish.
“Are you hurt?” Tim asked, trying to hide a wince as Alfred placed a stitch on him. Alfred had rushed him to the cot to stop the bleeding from his arm, and they hadn’t done their usual after-patrol pat-downs.
“Master Damian?” Alfred’s tone is enough to make Damian pause without even having to look up.
“I am not hurt,” Damian assures them, voice tired but steady. He waited a moment longer, for what Tim wasn’t sure, and continued on to the bathrooms.
“You’re sure he wasn’t injured?” Alfred asks quietly.
“I didn’t see him get hit. He seemed fine. I got there just in time to block that knife thought,” Tim winces again as Alfred tightens his bandage. Alfred just hums. “It wasn’t his fault; we had bad intel. He’s still blaming himself, though.”
“You have remarkable patience, Timothy.”
“What?”
“He’s tried to maim or kill you several times now, but you still patrol and check on him without seeming to hold any resentment. I don’t know if you're hiding it well if you’re just that… gentle,” Alfred explains. It’s not often that Alfred doesn’t know something, but Tim isn’t really sure either. He just knows that the kids are struggling, and he wants to help. Without being stabbed would be nice, but at least it wasn’t Damian this time.
“What kind of Bat did B say he was?” Tim asks.
“Hm, he didn’t,” Alfred looks up, “Why?”
“He drinks blood usually, right?”
“With his usual meals, yes, to supplement his diet.”
“I haven’t seen him shift.”
“No, as far as I’m aware, he doesn’t like to do it much.”
“No,” Tim looks up to see Bruce limp into the infirmary, “He only uses it for recon or escape, from what I’ve heard. But it’s not very useful in a fight, so he didn’t use it much and didn’t train in it. He doesn’t like to talk about it. Why do you ask?” his hair is mussed and he’s in his lazy sweats.
“I have a theory. But it’s nothing solid yet.”
“Care to share?”
“Not until I know more,” he yawns, “I don’t wanna ruffle any feathers if I’m wrong.”
“Alright. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Small wound. It’ll all be in the report.”
“Alright. I want you to eat first, both of you.” Bruce turns to leave. Either to check on Damian or return upstairs.
“Sounds good, B.”
Tim decided to try an experiment. Nothing bad, nothing that would hurt Damian. In fact, if his theory is right, it will help him. The first time was the next day.
They were sitting on a roof as Damian griped about a would-be robber they’d just taken down. He’d been relatively calm until then, nearing midnight, and he started to get extra irritable again. And Tim noticed his shaking hands.
He slid him a banana.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him. He just slid it from its hiding place (Damain couldn’t figure out where that would have been without it being crushed?) and slowly slid it over to the boy. He stared at it for several moments, confused more than anything, before hesitantly picking it up. Tim ate his own, not wanting Damian to feel alienated, and thirty minutes later, Damian was back to normal. Steady hands, steady tone.
The next time Damian patrolled with Jason as Batman, they again went their separate ways. But around midnight, Tim noticed Damian getting more snippy on the comms and made his way over.
Jason and Damian were sitting on a roof, just gazing out over the city. It was cold and dreary. Cold enough that even most criminals had apparently decided to stay in. Damian had a scowl on his face. Tim could swear that Jason looks almost amused under the cowl, but he could be imagining it.
He settles beside Jason, opposite Damian, and this time he slides an orange behind Jason’s back, flipping a pebble at Damian to get his attention. Tim is still looking straight ahead when Damian whips around with a growl, but the youngest stops when he sees the orange. He glances at Tim but says nothing as he takes the orange.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Now the eldest definitely looks bewildered.
“None of your business!” Damian snaps, placing his peels in a neat pile. Jason eyes Tim.
This happened twice more. Once an apple, then another banana, before Jason finally corners Tim.
Damian had already gone upstairs, having been patted down before he bathed and changed. He had some homework he wanted to get a head start on. Tim suspected he just didn’t want to linger with Tim and Jason.
He hadn’t said anything yet, but it definitely wasn’t normal for the bats to feed each other fruit on their patrols, and there was a palpable tension between Tim and Jason. So palpable that Alfred had given them both a look before trailing after Damian upstairs to make everyone some food.
“Alright, Re- Tim,” Jason spins around in the chair. Tim finds his shoulders sagging at the correction of his name. He hates that name. It’s another reminder that he’s not really part of the family. Wasn’t chosen. “What’s with the fruits? Why are you feeding Damian?”
“It’s not bad, I promise,” Tim assures him quickly. Jason’s brows nearly reach his hairline.
“Okay, that makes it sound bad. You poisoning him or something? I thought we said we would try to avoid adding to the Dead Robin list,” he crosses his arms, leaning back in the chair.
“I’m not poisoning him,” Tim rolls his eyes. “I’m testing something.”
“Experimenting on him is also bad, Tim,” Jason gives him an unimpressed look.
“I’m not- Do you think I’m evil or something!? What the fuck, Jason?” Now it’s Tim’s turn to cross his arms.
“Let’s be honest, Timmers, if any of us were going to turn into a supervillain, it’d be you. You got a wildcard streak, you’re great at manipulation, and you’re literally a genius. And research shows that smarts and depression have a strong, if not direct correlation, so…”
“Okay, I’m gonna be honest, I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified-”
“Why not both?”
“-So I’m just not gonna respond. But I have a theory, and you can’t tell Damian yet! I think we’re finally making some progress, and I don’t wanna freak him out or-or make him mad at me for snooping or anything.”
“... okay.”
“I think he may be a fruit bat,” Tim tells him. Jason doesn’t move, but Tim can see the cogs turning in his head.
“You think his blood sugar is getting too low, and that’s why he seems to get more irritable and hostile all of a sudden.”
“You ever notice how his hands tremble when that happens? And he gets a little more sluggish?”
“I didn’t,” Jason shakes his head, “But hindsight and all. That’s good work, Timbit. If you’re right, this is could be a big threat to his health… and ours. He gets stabby.”
“I know,” now it’s Tim’s turn to level him with an unimpressed look, “He’s literally stabbed me before. He’s tried to kill me three times.”
“Right, right… So what’s next?”
“I’m trying to figure that out. I need to know what his shift is to know for sure. But Bruce says he didn’t use it much because he can’t really fight in it because bats are small compared to humans, not the most threatening in a fight.”
“So ask him.”
“Bruce said he doesn’t like to talk about it, and I don’t want to set back any of our progress. I think I’m finally safely out of the maiming zone of our relationship. Plus, if The League wasn’t interested in it, he may not even know! He probably didn’t get to explore it much while he was there.”
“Like you didn’t get to explore yours with your parents?” Jason asks softly. When Tim doesn’t respond- “You relate to him.”
“Yeah. Not that it matters, it doesn’t make much difference.”
“Of course it does,” Jason frowns. “You two may not have the best relationship, but you live here with him. We get along okay but with the way everything went down we haven’t exactly had time to bond. You’re really the closest person he’s got right now, next to Bruce and Alfred. And we’ve all noticed how you tried to help.”
“I… tried to be subtle.”
“Subtlety has never been your strong suit. And it’s not his either, you’ve seen how direct he is. Your best bet is to just ask him outright. If he doesn’t know, help him figure it out; if he does, problem solved! Kind of. Then we gotta find out why he didn’t say anything about the blood diet.”
“If I ask him and he gets angry about it-”
“Would it make you feel better if I were nearby? In case things get hostile again?” Jason offers. A rare show of his own kind of affection.
“Um, yeah. That, uh, would make me feel better. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he turns back to the computer, clearly having met his “peopleing” limit for the night. “Just lemme know when.”
It was a week later when Tim decided to ask. It was at the manor, because if things did go badly, he didn’t want Damian running off angry in the field. Everyone was here. Dick and Jason included. They were having their weekly Sunday night dinner, and Alfred had made some roast chicken and potatoes, and a simple fruit salad at Tim’s request. The butler gave him an odd look but agreed.
They were in the library. Jason was reading on his usual sofa, and Damian was in one of the chairs scrolling on his phone, Alfred the cat in his lap, happily purring. Tim was pretending to read in the floor at Jason’s feet, trying to work up the courage to ask before anyone else intruded.
He didn’t have long to wait, because Jason suddenly put his book down (the little crochet frog bookmark between its pages), gave Tim a quick pat on the shoulder, and swiftly left the room. Closing the door with a resonating click behind him.
Damian looked up, slightly confused. He didn’t think he’d ever seen someone close the library door before. Tim looked stressed out. Something was definitely going on, but he couldn’t figure out what. He hadn’t done anything wrong that he knew of, and Tim’s previous words, “if you do something to upset someone, it’s up to them to tell you, not up to you to figure it out” resided in his head.
He did listen, even if he was… defensive. He knew he could be brash, forward. Angry. He didn’t know how else to be. But Tim had tried. And kept trying. And Damian… well, he was trying too. To adjust in kind. To let himself rely less on the fake, haughty, aggressive and confident attitude his mother had instilled in him.
When lost, fake it until you make it. Pretend that you're the best, don’t let them see you down or vulnerable, or confused, because that opens you to attacks, and- Damian takes a breath. He isn’t going to be attacked here. Timothy isn’t trying to take his place. There’s room for them all; his place in the family isn’t threatened, despite what his Grandfather told him. He just has to keep reminding himself of that.
“I have a question,” Tim starts, still staring at the book in his lap. It’s not lost on Damian that he hasn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. “But it’s kind of personal, and I don’t want to upset you.”
“Are you… Are you asking me if you can ask the question?” Damian asks, still stroking Allfred’s soft fur.
“Yes? I don’t want to come off as rude or standoffish. But I’ve noticed a few things that I think are important, and it has to do with your shift.”
“What about my shift?” Damian’s eyes narrow. His shift is weak. It’s small. It’s barely good for recon. That’s what Grandfather always said. He doesn’t actually mind it. He loves all animals. They tend to be much better than people, and he’d like to think he’d kind of… cute, even. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.
But it is small and weak. It’s not good for fighting. It’s vulnerable. And a shift is associated with a person, and if they see his shift as weak and vulnerable, then they may see him as weak and vulnerable, and they might not think he’s worth keeping around and-
“You’re a bat, right?” Tim asks. But his voice is soft, curious. “It’s kind of fitting,” he smiles, “given the theme of our little pack.”
“I am a bat.”
“Can I… ask what kind of bat?” Tim asks, hesitant. He seems nervous, though Damian isn’t sure why. They’ve passed the murderous phase of their relationship by now, surely Tim knew that. He’s not proud of how things went his first few months at the manor, but he’d thought they’d grown more… accustomed to each other recently.
“I am a vampire bat,” Damian admits. “Why?”
“Are you sure? I’m worried you may be eating wrong,” Tim admits.
“Eating wrong?” Damian straightens up in the chair. Of all the directions this conversation could have gone, he hadn’t expected anything like this. “What do you mean by 'eating wrong'?”
“You drink blood, right?”
“Yes.”
“Because that’s what was fed to you, or because you actually like it?” Tim asks, finally closing his book, turning to look up at Damian.
The younger person has to stop and think for a moment. Did he ever get a say in what he ate? He’s drunk blood with every meal for a long, long time. As far back as he can remember. But does he like it? Are you supposed to like it? It’s blood. He’s never really explored his shift. He’s never studied it. They never talked about it. He just knew he was a bat, and he drank blood. So… vampire bat, right?
“I… don’t know,” he looks over at Tim, face creased, “I’ve just always had blood. I do not understand, where is this going?”
“I think you may be a fruit bat.”
“What?”
“First, I want you to know going forward, that that’s not bad,” he says, crossing his legs. “My family hated my shift. I wasn’t allowed to shift for a long time until I came here. And I always thought it was bad, what I was. But that’s not how it works. There’s no such thing as a bad shift. Bruce said you don’t like to talk about your own shift much, so I imagine it was kind of the same for you. But if you are a fruit bad, I think your diet may be harming you.”
It’s quiet for several moments as Damian seems to mull this over, hand constantly stroking Alfred, who is content to just lie in his lap and be pet. For a second, Tim is worried he won’t answer him at all, or that he’s contemplating another murder attempt. But-
“I am willing to look into it.”
“Really?” Tim grins.
“I would rather not do it with an audience. But I will shift here and allow you to take one picture for your research,” Damian says. If he doesn’t make himself do it now, he’s not sure when he’ll be able to make himself do it again. So he doesn’t think, just reaches in and pulls at his shift. And then he’s much smaller.
“Ok, uh,” Tim digs his phone from his pocket, and when he looks back up, there’s already a bat fluttering over to the couch he’s in front of, trying to avoid a curious cat. Tim is a bit shocked at how quickly and easily it’s all happening, but raises his phone as Damian settles on the couch, trying to stay still but eyeing the cat that’s creeping closer.
Tim, the photographer he is, is quick to get a clear shot. And then Damian is a boy again, tan skin, green eyes, and all. Alfred the cat looks confused.
“Please do not speak of this to anyone else, Drake,” Damian tilts his chin up, straightens his shirt. “Not until we know.”
“Of course,” Tim offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile, “I’ll start looking now.”
It doesn’t take Tim too long to find it. He doesn’t want to sound speciesist, but a lot of bats do look very similar, and he can’t rule out Damian being a hybrid of some kind.
He’s still looking during dinner, under the table, because Alfred doesn’t like phones while they eat together. He’s pretty sure Alfred has already noticed and is ignoring it, but he tried to be discreet anyway out of respect.
The chicken and potatoes are great, as always, and Jason nearly moans at the first bite. He and Dick don’t get home-cooked meals very often anymore, but Jason especially appreciates them after being dead.
Damian is sitting at the table, eating quietly as usual, but is sitting between Tim and Bruce. This is a bit odd because he usually likes to sit away from Tim, and everyone seems to have noticed. Jason has a bit of a twitch at his lips, a knowing smirk. Dick looks a little confused, and Bruce doesn’t change expressions, but his gaze keeps flitting between Damian and Tim. Alfred won’t let on either, but Tim knows he knows that something is up.
Alfred always knows.
Damian hasn’t touched his cup of blood yet. Tim has noticed the way he’s eyeing it. He’s brought it to his lips a couple of times, but the line of fluid hasn’t gone down. No one else seems to have noticed. Possibly, they just don’t look that closely.
No one in the family drank blood before Damian arrived, and, admittedly, it was a bit of an adjustment. Now Damian looks like he’s not sure if he even likes the stuff, and if Tim is wrong (he’s not), he worries that this will negatively affect how he looks at himself and his own diet.
Then he finds it. It took a little digging, but after narrowing it down by geography and the fruitbat category, the face and ear shape, he’s got it. Damian is an Egyptian Fruit Bat. He’s sure of it. He’s so sure he’d bet his place at WE on it.
He nudges his younger brother under the table, and his head spins around so fast that Tim nearly flinches. He tries to show Damian discreetly, under the table, the side-by-side images he’s pulled up. But the others are watching this quietly, waiting to see if Damian reacts to whatever Tim is showing him. Curious detectives that they are.
“You’re sure?” Damian asks softly.
“You’re looking at the same thing I am. Native to the Middle East,” Tim mutters. Damian just nods, staring at the pictures. When he finally looks back up, everyone is staring at them with raised brows, except Jason, who has a knowing glint in his eyes.
“Sure of what?” Bruce puts his fork down, a little concerned. He’s never seen Damian and Tim working together like this, and whatever it is, it’s clearly important.
“I am an Egyptian Fruit Bat,” Damian states. Bruce blinks at them for a moment. Another.
“You drink blood.”
“I have since I can remember. I never used or talked about my shift much, and I suppose it was assumed that I was a vampire bat. I am not,” he folds his hands in his lap, looking down like he’s nervous. Or ashamed, Tim thinks.
“What brought this on now?” Dick asks. Alfred is already removing the glass of blood, instead pushing the fruit bowl closer, smiling at Tim.
“Drake noticed some things that concerned him, and he asked me- I… allowed him a picture of my shift to check.”
“Notice what? Did something happen I should know about?” Bruce’s face is creased with concern.
“I uh, I noticed when we were patrolling together that around midnight, about six hours after we’d eaten before going out, he got extra irritable and uh, stabby? And when he gets extra irritable like that, his hands would tremble. And it reminded me of low blood sugar? I started keeping fruits for him on patrol, and that fixed it, which confirmed it. And the rest just kind of fell into place from there.”
“Nice work, Tim,” Dick says, looking at him with something akin to awe, making Tim blush a bit. He’s never been good at taking compliments.
“Yes, thank you, Tim, that’s impressive. I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed…” Bruce says. Tim turns impossibly redder. Compliments from Bruce were exceedingly rare. “I’m sorry we didn’t notice before, Damian.”
“I did not notice either,” the youngest shrugs. “You do not think less of me for not being a predator?”
“Of course not!” Bruce reaches out to lay a hand on Damian’s shoulder, “You’re shift doesn’t have anything to do with your worth,” he glances to Tim, having done the same song and dance with him not so long ago, “We love you just as you are. Not because of what you are.”