Work Text:
Damian came to realize that Timothy Drake had an uncanny resemblance to a cat—a Russian Blue, to be more specific.
Damian considered himself—as was natural—an animal expert. He was devoted to caring for the various animals he came across, naturally observant of their nature. He had done extensive research on the subject and concluded his own observations based on continued and meticulous study.
A cat nerd, Jason would call him.
His uncouth brother.
But Damian could easily see the similarity.
Russian Blues were known to be, to put it simply, smart as hell—observant and strategic. Traits his older brother excelled at. (He would die under torture before ever admitting that to anybody but himself.)
They were also known to be socially selective. Though they might seem friendly to an extent, they were not truly affectionate unless you were someone they loved. Then, they were fiercely loyal.
Timothy—as Damian had come to call him in the safety of his own mind—was nothing if not loyal. He had joined the family when it was at its lowest, nothing but jagged pieces of an incomplete puzzle. Pieces that would cut deep if you tried to pick them up.
But he had. Carefully, painstakingly, he had held those pieces until he bled, and as gently as he could, he put them back together.
(It was admitted that Father had not been in the best state of mind after losing his second eldest—a shadow of the man, the hero he used to be, bordering more on a meat suit than a human. Approaching that barely constructed persona had been a recipe for pain.)
Damian may not have been there at the time, but he could tell—from the way Richard’s face turned pained and sad whenever Tim’s early days as Robin came up—that it was not remembered fondly.
No matter. Tim had stayed. He had devoted himself until that shell of a man could function again. By the time Damian arrived, Father could at least be what a father should be—well, to an adequate degree, Damian would add. Father still had much to learn in the art of being a somewhat above-average parent.
(In the quietest and most fragile of moments, when Damian was in the company of his eldest brother, basking in his presence, he would look at him and think: This man—barely an adult, who wore affection and love like gloves, giving it freely without expecting anything in return—was what made these hollow halls and cold rooms of an infinite manor feel like a home.
It would have made Blüdhaven a home too. Anywhere Richard was would be what Damian considered home.
And though that was not what Damian had come to Gotham to find, it was, for the most part, what made him stay.
But he digressed.)
So, his sharp older brother—as he had come to begrudgingly accept—was a Russian Blue cat.
But that was where the similarities ended, and the limiting factor of being a human came into play. Because that idiot of a brother did not know how to ask for affection, and so he avoided it.
A cat would not have such limitations. They did not feel embarrassed or clingy if they needed attention—though they were mostly content to observe their beloved humans from a distance.
His brother, on the other hand, seemed reluctant to bask in affection—not because he didn’t want it (Damian could tell by the way Timothy would preen slightly whenever Father patted his back or shoulder after a job well done, the way he would lean ever so slightly into Richard’s side whenever he was hugged, or the way he wouldn’t struggle as efficiently—just feigning annoyance—whenever Jason got him in a headlock), but because he didn’t know if it was deserved or would be well-received.
So his idiot older brother would not, in most cases, initiate contact.
As such, Damian came to a decision. A test to verify two points of his observation:
Russian Blues, being observant, strategic, loyal, and socially selective, had the insight to recognize when their humans were sad or distressed and would offer comfort.
To prove his theory on Timothy’s nature, Damian would create an environment where those traits were put to the test.
(He was not curious about whether he was considered a "loved human" by his brother. He knew he was tolerated. He would not begrudge nor judge Timothy for excluding him from the circle of his loved ones, given their… *transgressions* in the early days. They had come far since then, but being targeted for murder—twice, at that—was not an incentive for brotherly affection.
Still, he knew that the stability of this family was a priority for his brother, and thus, it would be the first thing on Timothy’s mind. By Damian’s calculation, that would be enough to make Timothy momentarily forget his past faults.)
Damian played around with his plate, pushing the pasta back and forth with his fork. He barely took a bite before looking down again, poking at it lightly. The dish turned cold, but Damian made no move to finish it.
"Is the food not to your liking, Master Damian?" Alfred’s voice, expected, made Damian tense slightly—a measured, theatrical move. The boy slowly lifted his head, locking eyes with his grandfather -ignoring the way Timothy furrowed his brows at him-, before clearing his throat.
"It is splendid as usual, Pennyworth. I simply do not find myself hungry. It must be the snacks I had earlier."
Alfred raised a disapproving eyebrow—a gesture equivalent to a scolding from the quiet man. Though Damian did not want to disappoint him, he needed to commit to the act.
"May I be excused? I… have homework to complete."
Alfred stared silently before nodding. Damian stood unhurriedly, heading toward the exit with slow, measured steps, shoulders slightly hunched—not too much, or it would ruin the performance—without sparing a glance at the room’s other occupants.
Once safely in his room, he took out his phone and crossed not interested in food off his list, nodding approvingly to himself.
He had to time this carefully. There should not be too many witnesses to his feigned "depressed/upset" behavior. He had chosen moments when only Timothy would be home.
God forbid Richard got wind of it. There would be no end to his coddling. Though Damian had come to appreciate his affection, Richard was not the target this time.
The plan was simple: Damian would fake being "out of it" to foster curiosity and then worry in his brother. He would act out of character, and Timothy—the problem-solver that he was—would feel pressured to intervene.
He had accounted for several possibilities:
1. Most would delegate the task of making Damian talk to Richard. However, the first Robin was currently swamped with work in Blüdhaven (Damian couldn’t believe how deep corruption ran in their police department—so much that it put Gotham’s corruption to shame, or perhaps the opposite in this case). Richard wouldn’t be visiting for weeks, and the family had agreed not to bother him unless necessary. That gave Damian enough time to execute his plan.
2. Bruce was away on Justice League business and couldn’t be contacted for some time.
3. Though unlikely, if Tim did call Jason for help, the second Robin had already been informed of the plan (or at least some details, since he was available). Jason had smirked when he heard the plan before agreeing to assist if needed.
That left the task to a confused Timothy, lost on how to deal with a subdued Damian.
Damian would call this a foolproof plan.
It had been two weeks, and Damian would proudly admit he was doing well.
Most scenarios had gone smoothly—showing reclusive behavior, lacking his usual aggression or haughty demeanor. He had:
- Faked staring into space whenever Timothy was in the room (though he was actually meditating).
- Faked a lack of appetite (though he ate his fill when visiting Jason—second only to Alfred’s cooking).
- Avoided his sketchbook (though he filled a hidden second one).
- Refused to rise to bait when Timothy tried to provoke a reaction (which wasn’t hard, as he had stopped getting genuinely angry at his brother long ago—he had only faked irritation to save face).
And it was all coming to fruition.
Timothy looked openly worried now—hovering nearby when Damian secluded himself in the library, throwing concerned glances whenever a plate went untouched (eventually, Damian had to admit his plan to Alfred to avoid suspicion), and seeming on the verge of asking something whenever they shared space—but always holding back, as if lost.
Good.
Just a few more pushes.
"Master Damian, would you like to take Titus for a walk? The weather is as nice as it ever gets in Gotham. It would be a shame to miss it."
Damian looked up from his homework on the couch (already finished—he was just testing more advanced formulas to keep his mind sharp). Timothy was tucked into the corner, typing furiously on his laptop.
Damian carefully suppressed a smirk as he met Alfred’s eyes. His grandfather had agreed to participate in the plan, deeming it important to help Timothy develop confidence in seeking affection.
Damian bit his lip lightly, letting the silence stretch before answering.
"Thank you, Pennyworth, but perhaps another time. I have much homework to finish."
The furious keyboard tapping stopped. Silence filled the room.
"Very well. I shall return in an hour. Titus is in need of exercise."
With that, Alfred took his leave.
Damian turned back to his homework, carefully ignoring the other occupant in the room. The silence was proof his brother was no longer in a hurry to resume work.
Damian’s love for animals was well-known. Under normal circumstances, he would never delegate their care to someone else—especially not for homework.
It was bait.
Hook.
Line.
A throat cleared. A hesitant voice spoke softly.
"Damian?"
And sinker.
His brother, though a great detective, was easy to fool.
Damian lifted his head, turning slightly to look at his brother. He could see the hesitancy, the caution—but mostly, the naked worry.
Though his goal hadn’t been to seek affection for himself, seeing proof of care was… not unwelcome. The warmth in his gut reminded him of the way Richard looked at him with open fondness.
"Yes, Drake?"
"Are you… are you feeling okay?"
Damian furrowed his brows, feigning confusion.
"I am physically well."
Timothy hesitated. That wouldn’t do.
Damian carefully lifted his feet onto the couch, curling slightly over his knees, making himself smaller. He knew this would invite sympathy—a feeling he usually despised, but Richard always folded when Damian looked "small." He would coo, press closer, and yield to Damian’s every demand.
Though that wasn’t the response he expected from Timothy, it would do the job.
And it did.
The couch dipped slightly as his brother inched closer—carefully, as if afraid to spook him. Again, Damian was reminded of a Russian Blue.
Damian kept his posture relaxed, his expression neutral. Cats were observant; they could sense tension and flee. A fight-or-flight response was not the goal here.
He must have been doing well because Timothy kept moving closer until Damian could feel his warmth—though not quite touching.
"I—you—are you not physically not fine?"
Well. Those were words. Technically. Vocabulary and articulation seemed to be eluding his brother at the moment.
"I mean, is something bothering you? If it is, you could… you could tell Dick. You know that."
Damian met his brother’s eyes, seeing the uncertainty.
Even Jason wasn’t this bad. If he thought something was wrong with Damian, he’d corner him, demand answers, and pester him until he admitted it in a fit of anger. Jason wouldn’t take insults to heart—he’d listen to the unspoken words and help without offering.
"I am… fine. And—" Damian paused for effect (something Jason had taught him from the countless plays they’d watched), "Richard is… busy." He cleared his throat. "Not that I need him or anything."
"Yeah, no—I didn’t say you need him. I just thought you might want to talk to him. I mean, he’s your favorite brother. Between him and Jason, I know you’d go to him first."
It was unclear whether Timothy—by excluding himself from the list of people Damian might confide in—meant that Damian didn’t consider him a brother or simply that he wasn’t someone Damian would talk to.
Both options twisted something inside him. A small lump formed in his throat.
He had wanted to take this slowly—to build a foundation where Timothy felt needed and appreciated. But the words that escaped him were the only ones on his mind now.
"You’re my older brother too."
Timothy tensed. His eyes widened, his breath hitching slightly. He seemed frozen, and Damian feared he had taken a wrong step—stepped on a branch, spooking the cat into fleeing.
In that moment, he felt like the child he always denied being.
He had come to accept Timothy as his brother, though he had never said it aloud. He had thought it obvious.
He hadn’t considered that Timothy might not see him the same way.
Instinctively, he averted his eyes, bracing for rejection, before setting his feet on the ground and pushing himself up to leave.
A hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him back before he could go. He turned to look at his—his what?
"Of course I am. I am your brother, Damian."
Timothy’s eyes were earnest, shining with moisture. Damian blinked. Was his brother on the verge of crying?
Timothy tugged him back onto the couch, sliding his grip down to hold Damian’s hand—carefully, as if expecting him to pull away. Damian stared at their joined hands before meeting Timothy’s gaze again.
"It’s just… you’ve seemed unwell these past few days," Timothy said, his voice gravelly, as if something were stuck in his throat. "And I was worried, but I know you don’t trust me to help, so I thought… as long as you’re okay, it doesn’t matter who you talk to. I know you don’t like me intruding, and you hate it when I hover, and—"
Damian squeezed his hand. It wasn’t as warm as Richard’s, as calloused as Jason’s, or as large as Father’s—but it was still bigger than his. It was his *older brother’s* hand.
"I don’t hate it." He looked at Timothy, trying to convey sincerity—belated, but not too late. "I don’t hate it when you’re around, or when you try to help, or when you spend hours making PowerPoints on the most mundane things just to explain them to me."
Timothy’s eyes were wide. For once, he was speechless. (Damian would have basked in the rarity of it, had it been another time.)
he could no hold back the next words if he wanted to. and to be honest, he didn't. it was long time coming.
"And you are my brother. And I—I apologize for how I—"
Apologies were not Damian’s strong suit. But Richard had taught him that admitting fault and taking responsibility were signs of strength, not weakness.
"—for how I treated you when I first came here. It was undeserved. I won’t use my age as an excuse. I was wrong then, and I was wrong for not apologizing sooner."
He looked down at their joined hands again, remembering how Timothy had tried to welcome him—how he had extended that same hand, only for Damian to refuse it with ferocity. The hand that now held his.
"Can I hug you?"
Damian looked up. That was not what he had expected.
he was expecting hesitancy at best, and rejection at worst. attempted murder was nothing to sneeze at. asking for a hug after his barely adequate apology should not have been the go to.
his brother keeps on suprising him.
Though now that his mind wasn’t rattling with shaky thoughts, he realized his plan had succeeded. Timothy was asking for affection—initiating it even.
But the success of his plan was the last thing on his mind.
His heart jumped at the words.
This was better than he had anticipated.
"Yes."
Arms wrapped around him, pulling him close.
Though Damian knew he would grow taller one day, he was content in the way Timothy’s frame enveloped his. A hand cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair as Timothy buried his face in the crook of Damian’s shoulder.
Slowly, Damian wrapped his arms around his brother’s back, rewarded with an even tighter grip. Richard's octupous hugs had nothing on this.
It took a while for Timothy to pull back (Damian hadn’t even thought to move), and when he did, Damian was met with a radiant smile—something rare. He felt honored to be the cause of it.
"What?" he asked.
"Have I ever told you I always wanted a little brother?" Timothy’s smile dimmed slightly. "I thought, even if Mom and Dad left, I’d have my baby brother. I’d take care of him, be the best brother in the world. But then I thought… I wouldn’t want my little brother to wonder if his parents loved him. So maybe it was better if I didn’t have one."
His smile returned, brighter.
"But now I do. A baby assassin little brother."
Damian instinctively protested. "Not a baby." But there was no bite to his words.
"If you’re younger, you’re automatically the baby brother. No take-backs."
Damian grumbled. He had already been worn down by this logic from Richard.
"Even if they tried to kill you twice?"
Timothy barked a laugh. "Please, Jason tried harder than you did—and didn’t succeed, might I add. That’s practically a sign of brotherly affection at this point. I’m sure you came at Dick with your sword at least once."
(It had been more than once. But those were old times, as Richard liked to say.)
Timothy leaned back but kept their knees touching. "Sooo… mind telling me what’s bothering you?"
Damian stilled. He hadn’t planned this far—a miscalculation. But confrontation and consolation hadn’t been part of his plan either.
He looked down, considering, but came up empty. He met Timothy’s eyes hesitantly.
"Can I not say?"
He expected Timothy to withdraw, to become guarded again. Instead, his brother smiled softly.
"You don’t have to. But you do have to let me help somehow. Okay?"
Damian nodded before he could overthink it. Then, glancing out the window (the weather did look as nice as Alfred had claimed), he turned back to his brother.
"Then… could you help me take pictures outside? I’m focusing on scenery drawing, and I want references from around the manor."
Timothy’s smile widened. He stood. "Sure! Let me grab my camera—I’ll be right back."
And he vanished.
Damian wanted to ask if he was sure—Timothy had seemed busy earlier, working on his laptop—but he was left alone before he could question it. He looked at the abandoned computer on the couch before getting up to move it aside.
He froze when he saw the screen.
He had assumed Timothy was working on WE files or case notes, but several tabs were open:
- Anorexia causes
- Depression in young children
- How to approach your depressed kid
Damian didn’t know whether to snort or roll his eyes.
What he did do was ignore the warmth in his chest, set the laptop on the coffee table, and head to the door to put on his shoes and jacket—waiting for his brother.
“Timothy! Hurry up”
---
When Alfred returned a few hours later—courtesy of an impromptu grocery shopping trip he had deemed well-timed—he stumbled upon the two youngest Waynes sharing the couch in the living room and, for lack of a better word, snuggling.
They were watching a wildlife documentary, with Master Timothy dissecting the filmography and Master Damian interjecting random animal facts.
Well. It seems Master Damian’s plan had been a success.
Finally, Alfred could return to cooking meals for two. He did not like food to go to waste. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
Alfred had found Master Damian’s "cat theory" regarding Timothy amusing.
What the youngest had failed to perceive, however, was that Master Damian adored cats.
Not that it needed to be acknowledged for it to be felt. But it seemed Master Damian had come to the conclusion all on his own.
All was well.
**Bonus Scene**
"You seem to be in a great mood."
Tim stopped humming and looked up from his laptop, considering his older brother. "I do?"
"I’d consider humming *carousel themes* all morning as being chipper."
Tim paused, then shrugged. "If you’re annoyed, just say it."
Dick laughed. "If this gets stuck in my head for the next few weeks, I will seek vengeance."
Timothy smirked. "Seek vengeance? You’re starting to sound like a certain ex-assassin."
"They say the more time you spend with someone, the more you become like them." His face scrunched into a frown. "Which reminds me—I wanted to go to the zoo with Damian this weekend, but he said he had other plans." He looked genuinely bothered, as if his youngest brother (almost son) refusing him was unfathomable. He shook his head before refocusing on Tim. "Wanna come with?"
Tim leaned back, arms crossed. "So I’m your backup when no one else is available?"
Dick’s eyes widened. He hurriedly set down his mug (hot chocolate, likely made behind Alfred’s back) and waved his hands in denial. "No, no, that’s not—"
Tim chuckled. "Relax, Dick. I’m joking. I’d love to go to the zoo with you—" Dick brightened. "—but I already have plans this weekend."
The eldest’s eyes widened again. "Seriously? Do you both not like me anymore or something?"
"Who said we liked you in the first place?"
Dick clutched his chest in exaggerated agony. "The betrayal! To think your brothers loved you, only to find out it was all a ruse! A cruel ruse!"
Tim raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. "I see Jason got you into the classics too."
"When he says *I recommend you watch this,’ he means ‘I’ll suffocate you until you watch it and critique it with me.’"
"At least Damian loves criticizing things. They’ve got that in common."
Dick hummed in agreement. "He’ll deny liking them, but I’ve caught him watching plays. Even an Egyptian one—The School of Mischief? I swear I saw him laughing. Full-on laughing. Thought I was hallucinating."
"Oh yeah, he loves that one."
Dick blinked. "He told you?"
Tim regarded him slowly before shrugging. "Yeah, he did." Before Dick could press further, he added, "I’m not free this weekend, but… there’s a true crime convention coming up soon. If you’d like to go with me?"
Dick was stunned. Timothy, blatantly asking to spend time together? His silence must have been mistaken for hesitation, because Tim’s eyes flicked back to his screen.
"It’s fine if you can’t. It’s not on a weekend, so you’ll be working."
Dick hurriedly sat beside him. "No, no, no—I’d love to! Seriously. And after the bust I made last week in Blüdhaven, I think I’ve earned a few days off. Just send me the schedule." He held Tim’s gaze. "I know one day won’t be enough for a geek like you, so I’ll take the whole week off. We’ll do two days at the convention and bully Jason into a movie night or two."
Tim studied him, as if searching for something, before asking, "Do you have blackmail on Red Hood?"
Dick smirked. "Red Hood? No. Jason Peter Todd-Wayne? Hell yeah."
That earned a full laugh from Tim. He even leaned in to nudge Dick with his shoulder before settling back. "That, I’d love to see."
Dick grinned before curiosity got the better of him. "So? You’re not telling me your plans for this weekend?"
Tim raised both eyebrows in a deadpan. "No."
Dick whined like a child. "Come ooooon."
Tim ignored him and returned to his work.
There wasn’t really a reason not to tell Dick that he and Damian were visiting the zoo this weekend. But somehow, he wanted to keep this to himself—just for a little while.
He wouldn’t call what they had now fragile, but it was tentative. And somehow precious. He wanted to hoard it for as long as possible.
Tim understood now why Dick adored Damian. Once the kid considered you his, he was fiercely loyal—and in his own way, affectionate.
Tim remembered their last park outing, when Damian had gotten into a scuffle with another kid while Tim was on a phone call. By the time he got closer, he realized it was a childish argument over "my brother is better than yours."
He’d assumed Damian was talking about Dick—until he heard damian mocking. "Cute. My brother reverse-engineered a WayneTech drone at fifteen. He rewrote an entire cybersecurity protocol during breakfast—on his phone—with a fork in the other hand. He doesn’t build robots; he builds systems that control them. He’s nineteen and already a feared CEO. Your brother couldn’t compare—don’t even bother arguing."
Tim had frozen. They’d grown closer, but he hadn’t realized Damian thought highly of him—or that he’d brag about him to strangers. It was… flattering. Tim had felt himself blushing as Damian listed achievements he didn’t even know his brother was aware of.
He might have stayed hidden a little longer, just listening, before intervening when the other kid looked on the verge of tears.
As Dick continued fake-whining, a thought occurred to Tim.
"Hey, Dick."
Dick paused his theatrics. "Yeah?"
"Did you know Damian’s like a cat?"
Dick looked amused. "A cat? How?"
"Well, there are different breeds, and while personality varies, certain breeds are known for specific traits. Take Bengal cats—they’re like mini leopards. Wild, sharp, always on the move. Super smart but independent. They’re not overly affectionate, but when they trust you, they’re *loyal* and protective. They don’t show affection the usual way—"