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Damian jolted awake, heart racing as the nightmare clung to him like a shadow. The faint hum of the Manor's heating system and the rustling of trees outside slowly reminded him of where he was. Safe. At home. But it didn’t feel that way.
The nightmare had been too vivid. Tim—broken and bleeding, slipping away—burned into his mind. Damian pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to banish the image. His gaze flicked toward the door, across the hall to Tim’s room. It was dark and quiet. He thought about going to check on him, but the idea left a knot in his stomach. Tim had been through enough without Damian adding to his burden.
He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, unable to close his eyes. Sleep eluded him the rest of the night.
.
By sunrise, Damian was already downstairs. His room had felt suffocating, and the dining room offered a reprieve from the weight of his thoughts. Alfred greeted him with a polite, "Good morning, Master Damian," as he placed a pot of steaming tea on the table.
"Breakfast will be ready shortly," Alfred added, his glance lingering on Damian’s restless posture.
Damian only nodded, grabbing a slice of toast. He wasn’t hungry, but eating gave him something to focus on other than his swirling thoughts.
Bruce entered not long after, his footsteps quiet yet his presence heavy. "Morning," he greeted, his voice stiff, testing the waters.
Damian gave a barely perceptible nod, keeping his eyes on his plate.
Bruce poured himself coffee and sat across from Damian. For a while, the only sounds were the soft clink of silverware and the rustle of the newspaper Alfred had left beside Bruce’s plate.
"How did you sleep?" Bruce asked, his tone casual, though it carried an edge of effort.
"Fine," Damian replied curtly, not looking up.
Bruce hesitated, clearly wanting to press further but holding back. He stirred his coffee, his gaze shifting toward the doorway as if expecting Tim to appear any moment.
Tim shuffled in minutes later, his steps slower than usual. He looked pale, with dark circles under his eyes betraying a sleepless night.
"Good morning, Master Timothy," Alfred greeted, setting a plate of food in front of him.
"Morning," Tim mumbled as he slid into his seat, avoiding Bruce’s gaze and barely touching his food.
Bruce glanced between his sons, clearly unsure how to break the silence. After a moment, he tried again, softer this time. "Tim, how are you feeling?"
Tim shrugged without looking up. "Great."
The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Bruce tapped his fingers against his mug, seemingly debating whether to say more but ultimately stayed quiet.
Damian stole a glance at Tim, taking in his brother’s weary expression. The memory of the nightmare returned with startling clarity, and he clenched his fists under the table, willing himself to focus on the present.
.
Damian spent the day in the gym, working through his frustration with relentless drills. Each movement was an attempt to escape the restlessness that had taken root inside him. Yet, his thoughts continued to drift to Tim.
Breakfast had only confirmed what Damian already knew—Tim was pushing himself too hard, still struggling to recover. The thought gnawed at Damian. He hated seeing his brother like this, and worse, he hated that he felt powerless to help.
By dinnertime, Damian was back in the dining room. Tim was already seated, idly poking at his food. Bruce sat nearby, quiet but watching with a furrowed brow.
"Are you eating enough, Tim?" Bruce asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Tim looked up, startled by the question. "I’m fine," he replied quickly, his tone defensive.
Bruce frowned but let it go, returning to his plate.
Damian observed the interaction in silence, frustration bubbling in his chest. He wasn’t sure who he was more annoyed with—Bruce for his awkward attempts at concern or Tim for brushing it off. Either way, the tension in the room remained thick.
.
That night, Damian lay awake once again, staring at the ceiling as the Manor fell into silence. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him, yet sleep refused to come. When he finally drifted off, the nightmare returned.
Tim, pale and lifeless, blood pooling around him. Damian pressed his hands against the wound, but it wasn’t enough. Tim’s eyes fluttered shut, his body going limp.
"No!" Damian shouted, his voice echoing in the darkness. But no one was there to hear him.
He woke with a start, heart pounding. For a moment, he stayed frozen, struggling to steady his breath. His eyes flicked to the door, drawn toward Tim’s room.
His feet moved before he could stop them, carrying him across the hall. The soft glow of Tim’s bedside lamp spilled into the hallway through the crack in the door. Damian hesitated for a moment before slipping inside.
Tim was sitting up in bed, a book in his lap. His exhaustion was evident, but his brows furrowed in concentration as he read. He looked up when Damian entered, his expression softening.
"Damian?" Tim asked, his voice laced with concern.
Damian stood frozen, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t come to talk, not really. The words felt stuck in his throat. Finally, he muttered, "I couldn’t sleep."
Tim set the book aside and patted the bed beside him. "Come here."
Damian hesitated, pride warring with the need for comfort. After a long pause, he relented, sliding onto the bed. He sat stiffly, arms crossed, avoiding Tim’s gaze.
Tim didn’t push him to speak. Instead, he rested a hand on Damian’s shoulder, his touch steady and reassuring. "You know you can talk to me, right?"
Damian clenched his jaw, the lump in his throat growing. "It’s just... nightmares," he admitted quietly.
"About me?" Tim guessed, his voice softening.
Damian nodded, unable to look up.
Tim’s heart ached at the vulnerability Damian rarely showed. Without a word, he pulled his younger brother into a hug, letting Damian rest against him.
"You’re not alone," Tim murmured. "Not now, not ever."
For the first time that night, Damian’s chest loosened, the weight of his fears easing in the presence of his brother. Safe. Together.