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English
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Part 3 of DC Fics
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Published:
2024-11-12
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1,477
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1/1
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It’s Better Now

Summary:

Drake eyes him uneasily, hand drifting imperceptibly to the batarang perched on his nightstand. “You’re not here to kill me, are you?”

There’s no malice laid in the question, and Damian can’t decide if that makes the sentiment sting more or less. Logically, Drake has every right to be suspicious of his intentions—Damian has been nothing but hostile in the past, and they’ve only just recently begun to tread on civil ground—and yet the words still halt him in his tracks, breath catching in his throat as he imagines a jagged blade perched in the palm of his hand, shiny and slick with his brother’s blood.

“No,” Damian chokes, biting down on his bottom lip to stop the way it threatens to tremble. Drake’s eyes widen, icy-blue irises staring at Damian’s fearful expression where it lies bathed in the lamplight.

Or

Damian has a nightmare, Tim helps.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Damian wakes in a cold sweat, body trembling violently as he tries to adjust to the dimness of his surroundings. It takes him far too long to remember he’s in the manor—far too long to remember he’s safe. No longer a villain, no longer an assassin; a hero without a blood-soaked blade in hand.

Even with the knowledge that his nightmare was merely a farce, he still feels as if Drake’s blood is coating his hands. He stares down at them, scanning each and every digit for signs of a scuffle. They remain wholly unmarred.

Damian stumbles out of bed regardless, some primal, disbelieving part of his heart urging him to check. He makes it just outside Drake’s door when he falters, resolve returning just long enough for him to weigh the possibility of fleeing to Richard’s room instead.

In the end, panic wins out, sweat beading on his brow as he carefully nudges Drake’s door open a crack. The man is wide awake—of course he is, Damian’s luck is abysmal—but doesn’t notice the tiny, shadowed form lingering by his doorway.

Damian steps back to slink away. His fears have been disproven and he has no reason to loiter further, but Drake’s gaze shifts at the last moment, stretching his arms far above his head as his mouth widens into a gaping yawn. His eyes land lazily on the door, body stiffening almost instantly as he stares at Damian like he’d just seen the devil himself.

“What the fuck,” Drake gasps, scrambling back in surprise. His eyes are blown wide in terror, one hand moving to rest just above his heart. “Holy shit, Damian.”

Damian says nothing. Can’t, when he’s so blatantly been caught in his moment of weakness. Instead, he slowly pushes the door open just wide enough for him to slip through.

Drake eyes him uneasily, hand drifting imperceptibly to the batarang perched on his nightstand. “You’re not here to kill me, are you?”

There’s no malice laid in the question, and Damian can’t decide if that makes the sentiment sting more or less. Logically, Drake has every right to be suspicious of his intentions—Damian has been nothing but hostile in the past, and they’ve only just recently begun to tread on civil ground—and yet the words still halt him in his tracks, breath catching in his throat as he imagines a jagged blade perched in the palm of his hand, shiny and slick with his brother’s blood.

“No,” Damian chokes, biting down on his bottom lip to stop the way it threatens to tremble. Drake’s eyes widen imperceptibly, icy-blue irises staring at Damian’s fearful expression where it lies bathed in the lamplight.

“Woah, hey,” he says, shutting his laptop instantly and setting it to the side. He swings his legs over the side of the bed so he’s facing Damian more fully, expression melting into the one he uses when they encounter particularly frightened civilians on patrol. “What’s wrong?”

The words are soft, tender. Damian doesn’t deserve such a high degree of care when his actions have brought nothing but pain. He ducks his head low, trying to smother the shame as his eyes sting with the beginning of tears.

“Dami, hey,” Drake calls again, closer this time. He makes his steps deliberately loud as he crouches to be more at Damian’s level. There are dark, purple bags painted beneath his brother’s eyes—a telltale sign of long, sleepless nights spent pouring over cases. “Tell me what’s wrong, did you have a nightmare?”

It sounds painfully childish spoken aloud, as if Damian were some toddler running to his family’s side for comfort. He doesn’t know how to explain the blood he’d witnessed trickling down his wrists, Drake’s head severed viciously at the neck as Damian loomed menacingly over the corpse.

He wants to apologize. He has to.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words barely above a whisper. The gorge in his throat makes it near-impossible to speak, and yet he tries to convey how contrite he is regardless. “My attitude toward you upon arriving at the manor was… deplorable. I no longer wish you dead, and I am… I am ashamed of myself for my past actions.”

A fat, crystalline tear rolls down the crest of his cheek, smattering against the hardwood floor below. The shame in his chest only intensifies further when Drake’s expression twists in pity, his brother’s hands gently reaching out to cradle his own.

“Damian,” Drake says, the words still layered in that same soft, foreign gentleness. They urge Damian to meet his eyes, and he finds himself floored by the way Drake’s irises brim with sincerity. “It’s okay.”

Damian pulls away, suddenly frustrated. How can Drake just accept his apology so effortlessly? How can he so easily summon forgiveness after everything?

“It is not,” Damian snaps, fists curling at his sides as his vision goes blurry and unfocused. Nothing in life is ever given freely, kindness even less so.

“It is,” Drake insists, rising to his feet and taking a step forward to match his stride. “Things have gotten better, haven’t they?”

It’s… it’s true, things have gotten better. Damian no longer antagonizes his family as much as he used to, and Drake in return has opened his mind toward the idea of spending more time together. It’s an improvement that makes Richard giddy with joy—a bright, dopey smile playing on his lips every time he catches them both in one place.

“They have,” Damian admits begrudgingly.

Drake’s lips tick upward in amusement, carefully reaching out to the thumb away the next tear rolling down Damian’s cheek. When he receives no verbal assault for doing so, he closes the last of the distance between them and envelops Damian in his arms, carefully guiding his head to rest in the crook of his shoulder.

Drake’s hugs are different from Richard’s. Rather than squeezing the life out of him in a sudden display of unrestrained affection, Drake wraps around his subjects hesitantly, treating them as if they were something breakable and precious. Damian could easily pull away if he wanted, and yet finds himself inadvertently returning the gesture, fingers winding into the back of his brother’s nightshirt as the tension finally drains from his shoulders.

“There you go,” Drake mumbles, rubbing soothing circles into his spine as he gently rocks them back and forth. “Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?”

Damian averts his gaze, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. He can’t deny the way his heart longs to accept the offer—the way he craves to hear his brother's rhythmic breathing at his back, if only to further dissuade his fears.

“Only because you would fail to get an adequate amount of rest otherwise,” he says.

Drake huffs a laugh, turning on his heel to guide Damian toward the bed with an air of unrestrained fondness. “Whatever you say, baby bat.”

He throws back the covers and allows Damian to wiggle his way onto the mattress, carefully following suit and tucking the blanket up to his chin. The space is warm and the dark corners of the room no longer seem as tantalizing as they had just moments prior, so Damian doesn’t complain.

“Timothy,” he says quietly, just when Drake has turned off the lamp and draped a long, weighty arm over his shoulders to keep him close.

“Yeah Dami?” His brother mumbles, sleep edging into his tone as weeks of long, strenuous casework finally catch up to him. Still, he keeps his attention fixed on Damian’s words, granting him respect even on the cusp of unconsciousness.

Damian blinks back the burning in his eyes once more, intent on not crying for a second time. Instead, he fists a small, slender hand into the front of his brother’s T-shirt, clinging like a child even when his experiences have made him anything but.

“Thank you,” he breathes, because that’s all he can bring himself to say. Words will never be enough to convey his gratitude toward Drake, not when he’s been nothing but patient and accepting since the moment Damian arrived at the manor, false mindsets and all.

His brother smiles—a rare, fleeting thing, considering the stress he’s undergone since bringing father back from the timestream—and Damian finds himself stunned by the genuinity of it all.

“No problem, Dami,” he says, tucking Damian under his chin with the same fond, loving fervor that Richard so often displays. “What are big brothers for?”

‘Brothers’, Damian’s mind echoes, imagining a world in which he and Drake fight side-by-side rather than as bickering rivals. Perhaps their bond could grow even further than it already has. Perhaps it could blossom into teamwork on the field unlike what their family has ever seen.

Damian closes his eyes, and finds that he doesn’t entirely hate the idea.

Notes:

As always, feel free to leave a kudos or comment if you enjoyed! And feel free to check out some of my other Batfam works for more Tim & Damian bonding :)

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