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The mall was loud.
Not Gotham-loud—no screaming, no distant sirens, no explosions—but loud in the way only civilian life could be. Bright lights. Music from three different stores clashing in the air. Jason loudly arguing with Dick about the tactical superiority of leather jackets versus whatever neon monstrosity Dick was holding.
“Neon is a lifestyle choice,” Dick declared.
“It’s a cry for help,” Jason shot back.
Bruce carried himself with the same calm authority he used in boardrooms and back alleys alike, though now he was holding three shopping bags and listening patiently to Dick and Jason’s escalating debate. Tim trailed behind Bruce and Damian, hands in his hoodie pockets, running on coffee and four hours of sleep.
It was simply a controlled family outing, a concession to something resembling normal civilian life.
They had walked for a little while when Damian's attention suddenly seemed to be caught by something.
Tim followed his line of sight.
Across the corridor, tucked between a tech store and a boutique bakery, was a small art supply shop. Warm lights. Sketchbooks displayed in the window. Imported brushes. Handmade paper. A set of professional watercolor pans arranged like jewels under glass.
Damian’s steps slowed.
Just slightly.
He didn’t stop. But his gaze lingered—sharp, assessing, hungry in a way Damian would rather die than admit. He had his typical scoff on his face, looking as if he would rather be anywhere than here. But his gaze, however, betrayed him. It had lingered a fraction too long on the small display. Briefly, Damian's fingers twitched at his side, a silent yearning crossing his face so fleetingly it was almost imperceptible.
Then he looked forward again and kept walking.
Tim smiled faintly.
Interesting.
They passed the store. Damian’s shoulders straightened. His face reset into practised indifference.
Tim drifted closer to Bruce. “Hey,” he murmured. Bruce didn’t look at him, but Tim knew he was listening. “Can I take Damian back to that art store?”
Bruce’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, but dangerously close. “The one we just passed?”
“Yeah.”
Bruce finally glanced at him. There was that knowing look. The one that said I see more than you think I do.
“Of course,” Bruce said easily. “We’ll be at the coffee shop across the hall.”
Tim nodded as Bruce raised his voice slightly. “Damian.”
Damian turned, suspicious immediately. “Yes, Father?”
“Tim would like to accompany you to the art supply store.”
Damian froze.
“I—what?” He looked at Tim as though he’d just announced a desire to take up knitting. “Drake has no interest in art supplies.”
Rude. Accurate, but rude.
Tim shrugged. “Maybe I’ve been secretly passionate about graphite grades this whole time.”
“You don’t even use pencils,” Damian said flatly. “You use a keyboard.”
Jason snorted from in front of them. “He’s got you there, Replacement.”
Tim ignored him. “So? You coming or not?”
“I did not request—”
Bruce’s expression softened in that infuriatingly gentle way he reserved for moments like this. “It’s alright to go, Damian.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. Tim could practically see the war inside his head. Pride versus want. Independence versus being seen.
“…Fine,” Damian muttered at last. “If Drake insists on wasting his afternoon.”
Tim grinned. “Nice. Let’s go waste it.”
Bruce glanced over his two youngest again. A gentle smile flicked over his face.
“Thirty minutes,” he said, “We regroup here. And no wandering without calling in.”
Jason, hands in his pockets, rolled his eyes. “Relax, old man, they're gonna be fine. It’s shopping, not a hostage exchange.”
“Famous last words,” Tim chuckled and looked at Damian.
“So, are you coming?” And Damian hesitated for exactly one second. “Yes.”
The bell above the shop door chimed softly as they stepped inside. The mall's noise dulled immediately, replaced by quiet instrumental music and the faint smell of paper and paint.
Damian stopped just past the threshold. His entire posture changed. Tim noticed that too.
Damian moved slowly through the aisles, fingers hovering over sketchbooks, brushes, and charcoal sets. He didn’t grab anything at first. Just examined. Evaluated quality. Checked bristle tension on a brush with careful precision.
Tim followed at a comfortable distance, pretending to study a shelf of inks.
“You don’t have to hover,” Damian said without looking at him.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You are breathing judgmentally.”
Tim blinked. “I’m… what?”
Damian finally looked at him, eyes sharp. “You are clearly bored.”
“I’m not bored.”
“You do not care about any of this.”
Tim considered that. He reached for a sketchbook, flipping through the thick, textured pages. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t know anything about half this stuff.” Damian made a small, dismissive sound.
“But,” Tim continued, glancing up at him, “I know you do.”
Damian stilled.
Tim leaned casually against the shelf. “You slowed down when we walked past. You’ve been staring at that watercolour set for three minutes. The imported one on the left, not the cheaper brand.”
Damian’s eyes flicked—traitorously—toward the exact palette Tim meant. “…Observation is not a rare skill in this family,” Damian muttered.
“Yeah,” Tim said softly. “Guess I picked it up somewhere.”
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t tense. Not exactly. Tim gestured to the brushes in Damian’s hand. “So? What’s the difference?”
Damian hesitated.
Tim waited.
Finally, Damian stepped closer and held up two nearly identical brushes. “This one is sable. Better paint retention. Smoother application. The other is synthetic. Acceptable, but inferior.”
Tim leaned in like this was classified League intel. “How can you tell?”
Something flickered in Damian’s expression.
Interest.
He explained. About bristle texture. About balance. About the way real sable responded to pressure. His voice grew more animated despite himself. His hands moved as he talked.
And Tim listened.
Actually listened. Asked questions. Nodded seriously. Let Damian correct him twice without teasing.
And by the time Damian selected a new set of brushes and that watercolour palette he had definitely not been staring at, his earlier resistance had dissolved into something quieter.
At the register, he glanced sideways at Tim.
“You truly do not require anything?” he asked.
Tim shook his head. “Nah. I got what I came for.”
Damian frowned slightly. “And what was that?”
Tim smiled—small, genuine. “You.”
Damian looked momentarily startled. Then suspicious. Then… something softer. “You are insufferable,” Damian said, but there was no heat in it.
“Yeah,” Tim agreed easily.
They stepped back into the corridor—
—and walked straight into chaos.
“That's the Wayne kids! Over here!” - “Damian! Look over here!”- “Is your father nearby?”
Tim’s stomach dropped.
Paparazzi.
Not random either—organised. Aggressive.
A camera flash exploded in Tim’s vision. Damian froze. Tim reacted instinctively - stepping closer, angling his body next to his younger brother, his hand rising instinctively to guide him to his side. “Damian,” Tim murmured, steady. “Stay close. Don’t look at them.” Flashbulbs exploded like tiny white grenades.
A wall of reporters surged forward from seemingly nowhere, microphones and cameras thrusting into their space. Damian immediately stepped back, shoulders rigid, instincts screaming fight. Tim saw it—the way his weight shifted, ready to strike.
“Don’t,” Tim warned under his breath. A reporter lunged closer, hand shooting out—not for Tim. For Damian.
“Damian! How does it feel to be—”
And Tim moved without thinking. He stepped between them, shoving the arm away. “Back off!” The crowd pressed tighter. Someone else pushed from behind. A camera clipped Tim’s shoulder. Another body slammed into him from the side.
“Hey, I said back off!” Tim snapped. "He's a minor. I said back off!"
Another hand grabbed, fingers brushing Damian’s sleeve. Tim twisted to block it—
—and someone shoved him hard in the chest.
He hadn’t braced. His heel caught on the edge of the tiled floor where it met the carpet runner. The world tilted violently. A burst of white from a camera flash blinded him mid-fall—and he could just wrap himself protectively around Damian before they hit the ground.
Hard. The back of his head smacked tile. His elbow cracked painfully against the floor. Damian's voice broke through the noise, edged with panic as he called his name. But he couldn't speak. Couldn't answer him.
Shoes crowded his sight. Camera flashes burned behind his eyes. For a terrifying second, Tim couldn’t move. And then -
“GET AWAY FROM THEM!”
Bruce and his two oldest were just on their way back from the coffee shop when it happened. They heard the shouting before they saw anything. Voices rose sharply, cameras clicked in rapid succession. The atmosphere buzzed with invasive chaos. Paparazzi, again. Bruce felt his jaw clench as he quickly scanned their surroundings.
And then—
“Shit!”
Dick expressed out loud, sharp and startled, already moving.
Jason froze half a step behind them, eyes locked onto the two familiar figures near the artstore. Tim’s back was to them, arms spread wide like he thought he could be a shield made of bone and stubborn willpower alone. Their youngest brother was tucked against his side, while grown adults shoved microphones and cameras toward them like weapons.
“Back off,” Tim snapped, voice cracking but loud. “He’s a minor. I said back off!”
Suddenly, a hand grabbed Damian.
That’s when everything went wrong.
Tim twisted, trying to pull him free, as someone pushed in him —and for a split second, he was weightless, eyes wide with shock, brother clutched tight against him - before they went down, disappearing between the reporters and out of their sight.
Jason swore viciously. Dick’s heart lurched into his throat. And Bruce didn’t think—he moved.
“GET AWAY FROM THEM!”
His voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
The temperature of the air seemed to drop ten degrees. In the span of a heartbeat, the entire mood shifted.
“Hey! HEY!” Dick shouted, already shoving through the crowd, shoulders wide, body language all sharp angles and warning. “What the hell is wrong with you people?”
Jason barreled in from the other side, fury rolling off him in waves. He planted himself between his brothers and the paparazzi, blocking their lenses with his body and knocking a camera to the ground with a careless swipe. “Back. Up. Now,” he growled, voice low and lethal. Someone actually stumbled backwards.
Bruce was kneeling beside them before anyone realised he had moved. He crouched on Tim’s side, one steady hand against his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride,” Tim croaked. Jason snorted darkly. “You cracked your head, idiot.”
“I noticed.”
Dick gently touched the back of Tim’s head, checking for blood. “You okay to stand?” Tim nodded, though the world still felt slightly off-axis. “Drake.” Damian's voice was tight. Controlled. Too controlled. “Get up.”
Tim blinked up at him, vision swimming. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Planning on it.”
Damian’s hand hovered uncertainly for half a second before gripping Tim’s sleeve.
Bruce helped him to his feet, “Tim,” he called, calm and steady even as his pulse spiked. “Look at me.”
Tim blinked up at him, dazed, breath coming too fast. “I— I’m fine,” he insisted immediately, because of course he did. “Damian didn’t fall. I got him.”
Bruce’s chest tightened painfully at that. He checked Tim anyway—hands careful, assessing, grounding. “I know. You did good. I’ve got you now.”
Tim just bobbed his head, the adrenaline finally leaking out of him in shaky breaths.
Dick crouched next to Damian, already smiling softly and reassuring despite the anger burning behind his eyes, looking at where Damian was still awkwardly clutching at Tim's sleeve, “You okay there, champ?” Damian nodded and whispered, “Yes, I am unharmed,” but his wide eyes were still locked on Tim.
Meanwhile, Jason stood like a wall, daring anyone to cross him, eyes tracking every movement in the crowd. Security—summoned by the noise—finally arrived, trying to corral the reporters backwards, and the crowd started to scatter, muttering, cameras lowering.
The ride home was quiet in that heavy, uncomfortable way one usually associates with funerals and failures. Damian sat rigid in his seat, his fingers digging unconsciously into the leather, leaving crescent shapes in the upholstery. Next to him, Tim was slouched in a way that looked deliberate- casual even- but Damian wasn’t stupid. He could see the way that Tim held his shoulder too carefully and his scraped knuckles where he had seemingly tried and failed to catch himself in his fall. The image kept replaying in Damian’s mind, the rhythm of his heartbeat quickening with each reminder. The sudden crowd. Shouts and flashes. Someone surging forward, too close, too fast.
-and Tim stepping in front of him without hesitation. He had smiled too. Like it was nothing. As if it was instinct to take a hit for him in total disregard of their troubled past. Damian swallowed hard.
“You should not have done that, Drake.” he muttered finally, staring straight ahead.
“Hey,” Tim huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m fine.”
“That’s a lie”
Tim tilted his head, studying Damian through the glass. “You sound mad.”
“I am furious,” Damian snapped, then seemed to rein it in, fingers curling tighter. “The risk you took was unnecessary. I could have handled it.”
“Maybe”, Tim replied calmly. “I know you could have- but you don’t need to.”
Damian now stared at him, different emotions flickering across his face “You were injured”, he accused, trying to prove a point. But Tim answered lightly, “Occupational hazard. Besides, you’re okay. That’s what matters.”
He looked away, jaw set hard. His hands fisted tightly in his lap, shoulders hunched, as if bracing against an ache he did not know how to name.
He didn’t respond. He didn’t know how. No one had ever put themselves in harm’s way for him like that. Not without a strategy. Not without calculation. Not without reason. Certainly not without backup.
And yet Tim had done it instinctively, hand up, body angled, taking the brunt of the fall.
Tim shifted, winced despite himself. Damian’s head snapped toward him. “You are in pain.”
“A little,” Tim admitted, softer now. Silence settled again, thicker this time. Damian’s face was pale, eyes wide and furious and afraid all at once, his hands trembling in his lap. “You are insufferable,” he huffed before continuing to stare outside the window.
When the manor gates finally came into view, Damian exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Alfred was waiting when they arrived, as if he’d sensed it, or maybe someone called in their early return. He had opened the door before anyone could further react, eyes already scanning, assessing them all, stopping at Tim.
“Master Tim,” Alfred said calmly, though his voice carried a slight edge. “Inside. Now.”
Tim opened his mouth—probably to protest—but Alfred had already guided him in with a firm, practised hand. The rest of the family was trailing after them.
Alfred sat Tim down at the kitchen table, ushering Bruce and the others away with a look that brooked no room for argument. He moved with gentle efficiency, clicking his tongue softly. “Concussion risk,” Alfred murmured. “Bruising along the shoulder. And these hands—honestly, Master Tim.” Tim offered a sheepish smile. “I’ve had worse.”
“That does not make this acceptable,” Alfred replied, though he applied antiseptic with infinite care.
Damian watched from the doorway, arms crossed, chest tight. He hated that feeling in his chest every time he saw someone from his family being hurt. Hated how familiar Alfred’s movements were—how often he’s had to tend to wounds earned in someone else’s defence.
When Alfred finally straightened, satisfied, Damian spoke before he could stop himself. “You protected me.”
Tim looked up, surprised. “…Yeah?”
“That was not your responsibility.”
Tim considered him for a moment, expression softening. “I know. I already told you. But I wanted to.”
The words hit harder than any camera ever could.
“…Thank you,” Damian said quietly.
Tim pretended not to notice how rare that was. “For what?”
Damian huffed. “Do not make me repeat myself.”
Tim grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Damian nodded once, sharply, because if he spoke again, his voice might do something traitorous. He turned on his heel, opened the door and paused once more without looking back before muttering, “Do not do it again.” Tim chuckled under his breath, still smiling. “No promises.”
The door closed.
Alfred watched Damian go, then glanced back at Tim with knowing eyes. “Well,” he said quietly, “it appears like you have made quite the impression.”
Tim exhaled. “Yeah,” he murmured, staring at the door with a soft, stunned smile. “Maybe.”
And somewhere down the hall, Damian Wayne pressed a hand to his chest, trying to understand the feeling he didn’t recognise—and why, for the first time, that didn’t feel like weakness at all.