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In the beginning it was simple. Drake was his rival. Robin was the title of Batman’s apprentice, the title that should be Damian’s. Drake was simply in the way.
“Drake.” Damian knew how to say a word like it was poison, like Drake was the most insulting word in the English language. As though to be Drake was something intrinsically shameful and dirty, something to be scorned. It was all that, of course, because Drake was not Wayne.
Damian was Robin now. Father was dead and Grayson of all people was now Batman. It was far from an ideal state of affairs, but Damian was Robin, and Drake was not.
“Drake,” Damian sneered Damian might have called the look in Drake’s eyes murderous, but Drake was too weak for that. If there was to be any murdering it would be by Damian’s hands.
The world did not work entirely as Damian had thought it did. Grayson was a sufficient Batman. Damian was his Robin. They fit together, the two of them. Robin, Damian learned, had never really meant “Batman’s apprentice”, because Robin belonged to Grayson. To his surprise, Damian was not unhappy about this. Grayson was his was his Batman, Grayson had chosen Damian to be his Robin. They belonged together. (Damian did not like that Grayson still seemed to care for Drake. Damian was his, Damian was the only rightful Robin.)
“Drake. You are not wanted here.” Drake seemed to agree. This was not as satisfying as Damian thought it aught to be.
Father was back. That was a thing. Drake was right, apparently, which was a bit infuriating all on its own. Damian supposed perhaps he should be grateful, a part of him was. (A part of him was angry, because now everything was changing again and Grayson was leaving, but how could he be angry that Father was back? Father was Batman and Grayson was really only Grayson, but Grayson was leaving.) But in any case Grayson wanted him to be civil to Drake, and Damian wanted to be a Good Person, one that Father would be proud of. Was Father proud of him? He had to be, Damian would make sure of it.
“Drake.” Damian said, shortly, simply. A greeting and no more, without any trace of insult or judgement. Drake nodded in acceptance.
Damian no longer hated Drake. There was no reason to, really. Damian was Robin. Damian supposed he could be jealous, but Grayson was hardly ever around now and it was exhausting enough to decipher whether Father thought Damian’s performance to be acceptable without bothering to decide what he thought of other people and become worked up about it. So Damian did not hate Drake. He did not understand where he fit in their strange family or what to do with him, but he did not hate him.
“Drake,” Damian said, unsure how to proceed. “Don’t. Just… don’t,” Drake said, and Damian had not known you could look so exhausted and simply Done with life without being dead, “I can’t deal with you today.” So Damian didn’t.
Drake, Damian realized, was pitiful. The Damian of a few years ago would have been delighted at this revelation. The Damian of now was not. Drake was miserable. Utterly and completely miserable. Somehow, Damian saw, Drake had gotten it into his head that he was worthless and/or nobody cared about him. Drake was ridiculous. It was probably at least partially Damian’s fault.
“Timothy.” Damian said, “You are not entirely useless in combat or as a detective. I am pleased to have you as a partner and as a brother.” Damian vanished immediately after this speech, his face burning red. But he did barely glimpse Dra-Timothy’s shock, along with his almost-smile.