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Tim couldn’t help the fact that he had been so thoroughly startled by the approach of heavy footsteps. He had had a plan! Had a plan— this wasn’t part of it. He hadn’t expected this!
It wasn’t part of his plan to be caught in the act of jacking a car’s tires by Flamebir— Damian. It hadn’t been part of his plan to then instinctively swing the heavy tire iron at the approaching person. Really— he hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t planned on it. Complete and total accident.
He had dropped the wrench after he had accidentally— instinctively— swung and hit his idol. His idol in civilian clothes— oh god he had hit the Damian Wayne— Tim had dropped the heavy tool like it had turned into molten metal in his hands and dashed away. Tim had been stealing from his normal civilian idol in broad daylight! What was he thinking!
He was now absolutely booking it out of there with his childhood hero hot on his tail. Tim hopelessly prayed that the Gotham stench was swallowing his scent whole behind him, just as much as it had muffled Damian’s back in the parking lot. Because how the fuck did he sneak up on Tim—
WHO was he asking— this was Imp, Flamebird, of course he could sneak up on him despite scents— and oh my gosh Damian Wayne had snuck up on him and was now chasing him and—
The fanboy in Tim’s stomach did a little flip— but now that Tim was thinking about it, he was perfectly happy to not smell Damian, to be uphill of the older man. Tim’s guts were already queazy from such a spontaneous occurrence, he really didn’t think he would be able to handle any sort of confrontation from his role model.
The little fanboy in his stomach was doing flips and cheering that Damian was chasing after him and wanted him and was giving him attention (although negative, but negative attention was better than no attention, but Damian certainly still wanted to hurt him—), but the adrenaline was screaming fight, flight, and freeze, all at once. And surely the scent of disappointment, anger, going-to-kill-maim-you, would to make him throw up. He didn’t know what that kind of anger smelt like, coming off of an omega, but he certainly wasn’t about to find out with the apple of his eye—
Why had he decided this was a good idea again? Who let him talk himself into this? He was introverted, at best. This was entirely unideal— he hated confrontation! He really should’ve factored these things into his ‘steal Damian Wayne’s tires so that he has to talk to his dad and then they can make up, and get Batman back to normal with an Imp at his side’ plan.
He really hadn’t thought about getting caught. Or hurting Flamebi-Damian (it was currently Damian). Or ending up in a marathon length sprint. With his idol! Or what to do in the situation that any of those things did happen— but now they were all happening!
His gut sank as he turned that corner, seeing the dead end of his alley.
Just the sprinkles on top— the street layout that Tim had known just as well as the paint on the walls of his house, had changed over night. He really should’ve thought this through and planned better. Why couldn’t he had done that.
There was no way an ex-al Ghul ex-Bat (that was having a bad day beforehand, by the way) was going to let Tim off the hook easily after attempting robbery and preforming assault and battery.
He had himself backed into a corner, he was boned, well and truly fucked, so to say. His exit route, an alley that had always been so reliable, so easy to lose people through, was now currently, walled off with garbage dumpsters.
The dumpsters as an impenetrable wall also meant that they weren’t close enough to the fire escapes that he could use them as a leg up.
Just his fucking luck.
Being 5’4 (maybe)(on a good day) there was no chance he was going to be able to vault a literal barrage of heavy duty, gigantic, dumpsters. No matter how strong he had gotten from roaming the streets or helping with his dad while he was sick— he was well, truly and thoroughly fucked.
Tim whirled around when he met the blockage, stomach preforming summersaults, that of which only a highly trained aerialist would be able to preform— but not in a fun way. In a scary he was going to fall and die sort of way. More realistically, in a going to pee his pants and cry way.
Same difference, just as bad.
He hadn’t meant to make Damian— the Damian Wayne-al Ghul, holy fuck, the Flamebird— mad at him! He didn’t want the other man’s attention or current frustration, or anger. But that didn’t matter as Damian’s silhouette walked into the entry way of the alley.
Tim swore hadn’t meant to hurt him (the last thing he ever wanted was for his Imp to be hurt. In any way!!)— but that didn’t matter now, as he was left staring at the man at the end of the alley (most likely seething. Tim couldn’t tell with the back lighting. Omg this would’ve made for a great picture—).
Distantly Tim could even disgustingly taste his own tangy-bitter fear in the air, his scent was so strong— pungent? Vitriolic? Evidently it wasn’t doing its job as a deterrent though, it’s sour molded wet-wood smell gone to waste with Damian’s deliberate and deathly successful hunting of him.
Tim’s stomach suddenly dropped. It didn’t feel like fun and games any more— his chest tightened and he couldn’t take a full breath. Damian had hunted him, hadn’t he? Omegas were always depicted as nice positive fluffy people— Tim knew they were built enough to protect their families though. The last line of defense. They could be calculating, and manipulative, they could be strong or sharp. They could be fierce with their love— but Tim was never on the receiving end of love, and Damian’s ferocity? It was undoubtedly aggression.
And Damian was anything but omega-like in presentation. Strong and sharp— and built and towering. More like a scary mad alpha.
Why didn’t Gotham bless him just this once and grace him with the ability to escape Damian Wayne.
But of course he had kept pace. He was the Flamebird. It had been a hopeless cause to think he could outrun or lose the other— who allowed Tim outside this morning, because his death was about to be on their hands. Disregard Tim living alone for the past few months, his death should be blamed on someone other than the love of his life, or himself.
The tall— holy shit, Batman, he had to be no less than 6’1,000– and broad man, was storming down the alley way, down to where Tim had wedged himself in. He really had to fucking crane his neck to keep up with the tall burning-green eyes as they approached. The same man as before, the same feet that had initially startled Tim, but this time he was heavily pissed off. He was well beyond mildly ticked off now. Good job Tim. For jacking his tires, hitting him, running—
“You mind explaining to me what you were trying to do back there, little brat?” He was so— so much more in real life. Tall— Tim could see the giant pecs huddled underneath that black turtle neck, as they were very much at eye level with him— and towering over him, but he was here and real, and now Tim wanted him so much more—
He was strong looking, like his dad, and sharp. Angular, but also broad. But so. so. threatening looking. By no sliver of the imagination was Damian— Flamebird!— glaring at Tim, no, he was practically boring holes into his head and Tim could feel his stomach turning.
The man was giant and looming and angry and—
“I— Bruce needs your help—“ Tim cringed at the stutter, were his mom alive and here, it would’ve been Tim that was put six feet under just now.
“Like hell he does— how the fuck do you even know who I am??” Damian loomed, ever closer—
well, maybe his mom didn’t need to come back and kill him, perhaps Tim’s own actions would do that, perhaps Flamebird would be glad to do it for her. But the question had thrown Tim for a loop. How could he not know who Gotham’s stars are? How was he meant to not know his hero and idols and fantasies—
Ok, well maybe it was because he was a bit of a stalker, that was definitely a part of how he knew who the older man was, “I’m from Gotham—“
“And your perverted self though that—“ Damian had raised his hand, wether to grab Tim— arm or shirt collar— or hit him, he didn’t know because he had panicked. He flinched and closed his eyes and turned away and covered his head and and tightened his muscles and braced himself and—
Damian had fallen deathly silent. The hot liquid that made Tim’s pants and undies stick to his skin only spread— further down his crotch, soaking into the fabric, spreading to make his khakis turn from pale brown to a bold wet-soaked deep brown.
Tim think he felt his soul leave his body, his stomach had somehow caught tiny dragons because they were ruthlessly beating his stomach, nothing like a gentle ‘butterfly’ feeling. All scratchy and wrong and bleeding—
He felt like he was going to be sick— but his bladder just emptied itself further, the organ squeezing and fluttering with every passing second, unrelenting in its crusade to soak his pants through. Tim was red in the face and close to hyperventilating and tears when it had extended to the point that he had a puddle under him, the final terrified squirts of piss ending in loud splashes under him in the dead silent alley.
He knew Damian hadn’t left— even with his eyes still closed, and face now covered, he sensed the light coming in from the mouth of the alley and the obvious shadow that was still there. Tim prayed that it wasn’t, that he had just forgotten how much light was supposed to be coming in and that it wasn’t actually a sillohuete right in front of him. He had the pleasure of opening his eyes and being met with his one and only, his Imp, his Flamebird, his Damian, still standing there, looking shocked, looking disgusted at Tim’s mess.
Tim hadn’t caught his breath. His eye burned and his lungs burned— and his stupid little puppy parts felt so raw and sore right along with his bladder. He had just s’peed. He had just submission pissed! He had just submission peed in front of his hero and he reeked and he wanted to cry—
“You steal from me and then what, pee yourself in a pathetic ploy to make me to feel bad?” Damian glared down at Tim. Instead of leaning in, like he had been, as if to hit him, Damian had taken a step back (a mortified part of Tim noticed it was distant enough to be out of the splash zone of his pee) and was now, chin up, and looking down his nose at Tim.
But Tim could only whimper in response. He didn’t know what to say— if he could say anything. The area suddenly smelt like puppy fear and submission and his brain had apparently had left with his bladder because—
How was he meant to defend himself? Say something? Part of Tim felt like Damian enjoyed the surprise that came along with his complete and total fear— which, just wasn’t nice!
Tim’s eyes burned and his throat felt like it was being strangled, “Batman needs you—“ He pushed, albeit, raspy and quiet and pleading.
A flicker of recognition crossed Damian’s face at that, but it was quickly replaced by irritation, “What, did you pee your brains out as well?” Tim was starting to believe he had, “Why would Batman need me? What could he want with me, a normal random citizen— and couldn’t he have come to get me himself? If he needed me that urgently? This still does not justify your attempt at nabbing my tires,” He sniffed stiffly, crossing his arms (over his broad chest, and squishing his pecs— maybe Tim would feel better if he had an omega to cuddle with. Someone soft and nice and strong to protect and scent him and give him cuddles. An omega that was fierce like Damian. That looked like Damian…)
“Because— because you used to be Imp, but now you’re Flamebird, and I have evidence to prove it, and I was trying to steal your tires so then you would have to go back to your dad to buy new ones, because you and Batman, Bruce, need to talk,” Tim got out in one breath
Damian’s face flipped through… so many emotions, before he settled on what looked like to be kind understanding, which didn’t make sense.
“Oh? Ok, so I’m Flamebird and there’s something Batman wants to tell me? Why couldn’t he talk to him, himself?”
Tim frowned, despite his shaky limbs (and cooling sticky gross clothes— he needed to get his message out) “Don’t patronize me, I have pictures and videos, and they’re all backed up, and I have physical copies. Batman needs you— ever since you left, he’s been tearing the streets a new one and over working himself— he’s hurting himself and others, crime rates haven’t changed significantly, but the amount of violet hospitalizations has…”
Damian regarded him again for a second, really looking at Tim, “Alright kid— let’s get you home,”
Tim’s heart sank. To just be dismissed like that?!
When Damian pulled off his jacket and reached out to hand it to Tim, Tim blushed at the way he had automatically flinched away. It— His home life wasn’t bad! Just Damian was… scary. He beat up bad guys over 5 times his size since he wasn’t any taller than Tim was. Fierce.
Tim couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t just… Tim wasn’t sure. But he took the jacket— he wasn’t cold? Looking at it, there was something weird about it…
“Use it to… cover yourself up. And you can keep it,”
“I’m going to send you proof…”
“I’m going to send you proof that you need to come back,” Tim said again, quietly as he tied the jacket around his waist, fluffing it up a bit in an attempt to hide his shame in the front and back.
Despite his efforts, he would still reek like piss until he could actually shower and change, and his clothes were still going to be cold and wet— Tim frowned, feeling his stomach roll. It wasn’t a good texture, he would need to skedaddle.
Looking up, Flamebird— Damian Wayne, was already gone. The only thing left was his jacket (like Cinderella, but Tim already knew who his wife was, he didn’t need to search the lands for her~)
Tim hoped Damian was going to take his message to heart, and had heard his threat to send information his was (because Tim was, he was already thinking about how many envelopes to send, and if maybe there were other things he could send inside as well. Parasocial and creepy as hell, but Damian, the larger than life hero Flamebird, was his.)
Tim also prayed that he wouldn’t be remembered as the piss kid— fucking hell, he totally butchered his first meeting. Theft, assault, running away, pissing himself, and then telling Damian to go back to his father that he obviously deliberately left behind..?
Tim could worry about it later (and fantasize about how they had actually interacted and Damian had given him his jacket~)
Tim played with one of the sleeves, pulling it up to his nose to smell at the wrist of it. It… didn’t smell like anything. That’s what was weird about it! It hadn’t had a smell! He wondered why it was scentless…
Well, that just meant he could try to imagine what Damian’s scent would be, while he was worrying about this. And fantasizing about this.
Later. He just had to make it to the bus like this now. There have been worse things, and worse passengers. Tim was too focused on his interaction with Flamebird, to really be too worried about his interactions with strangers.