Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim is seven years old the first time he hears about soulmates.

Well, truth be told, it’s not the first time he’s heard the word mentioned; it’s just the first time he actually pays attention and decides the concept is interesting.

Here’s the deal: at age ten, a mystical bond forms between soulmates—which is just a fancy way of saying you start hearing each other’s thoughts and feeling each other’s emotions.

Rather than two people sharing a soul, it’s more like two souls sharing a single mind.

Tim thinks it’s creepy. He spends a fair amount of time wishing he won’t have a soulmate at all; he likes his thoughts and emotions to be his and his alone. When he turns ten and hears nothing, he isn’t disappointed—he barely even notices. There are more important things going on in his life, and the biological quirks of human beings aren't exactly his priority.

Of course, the whole bond thing has a catch.

For instance, both parties must be ten years old for the bond to manifest. This means that if one person is older, they won’t hear a thing until the other party reaches the required age.

This also means Tim isn't necessarily exempt from having a soulmate; he might just be a few years older than her. Though, again, it’s not something Tim dwells on.

He is nine when he discovers Robin’s identity and, by extension, Batman’s. It isn’t hard to connect the dots regarding the second Robin and Nightwing later on. He never planned to do anything with that information; he was happy just watching his heroes from a distance and occasionally snapping some pretty good photos of them.

He thought things would stay that way—normal enough that he wouldn't have to think too much about it or get involved.

Then Jason Todd dies, and Batman becomes… complicated.

He didn't want to get involved at first. There was a world of difference between taking photos from several rooftops away and standing face-to-face with them.

He turns to Nightwing. He doesn’t know the gravity of the circumstances that drove Bruce and Richard Grayson apart, but he decides it’s the logical choice. Dick had been Robin before, right?

Well, apparently, it wasn't the logical choice.

He is thirteen when he becomes the new Robin.

Everything that follows is a rapid-fire succession of disasters, one after another, though Tim is fairly certain that if he could change anything, he’d still choose to put on the suit.

As the years pass, he thinks about soulmates less and less. He eventually assumes he’s part of that small percentage of the population without a "matching half," and he likes it that way.

Privacy. The idea of keeping his thoughts in his head where they belong. The ability to masterfully ignore his own emotions without some stranger intruding. Not to mention, it’s far more convenient for his double life as a vigilante and a civilian.

Eventually, he just stops thinking about it altogether. He’s about to turn seventeen, and it’s practically obvious he doesn't have a soulmate. There’s no way.

Everything remains relatively normal until he finally hits seventeen—and suddenly, he isn't alone anymore.

There’s someone in his head.

He is seventeen the first time he hears his soulmate.

It happens on a Tuesday, and Tim decides right then and there that he hates Tuesdays.

He’s sitting in the Manor’s dining room, tea cup halfway to his lips.

He isn't even aware of what that first stray thought was; he just knows it isn't his.

He does the math instantly, on autopilot. If it turns out he does have a soulmate and that voice in his head is real, it means there is a ten-year-old child out there with a seventeen-year-old soulmate.

He can't even stop his own mind as he re-evaluates his entire situation; the avalanche of thoughts consumes him.

"Ten years old. My soulmate just turned ten.

I’m seven years older than my soulmate.

It’s definitely not the biggest age gap on record, but it’s still awkward.

My soulmate is practically a baby."

"Shut up! Stop thinking, you’re giving me a headache. And I am not a baby."

It takes Tim a long, embarrassing moment to realize the voice is addressing him—that it isn't just a vague thought from the other person, but that they are using this strange bond to speak to him.

"You are a baby," he thinks, trying to project it like a normal conversation. Except it’s more like a very uncomfortable telepathic chat.

The most surprising part isn't even the voice; it’s the pulse beneath his skin, embedded in his chest—sensations that are foreign yet familiar. He can feel something like… irritation and anger, and he knows they aren't his emotions. He can distinguish them easily now, as if it were an art form he’d trained for his whole life.

"I am not. You are annoying. Turn yourself off or something, I want to sleep."

"You’re a bossy baby."

He doesn't get a "reply" after that, and after several minutes, there is a quiet, familiar silence. Tim assumes the kid kept his word and went to sleep.

That is the only time they use the bond to speak directly. Tim tries once or twice more before giving up when he gets no response.

The kid is clearly ignoring him, and in a way, that’s fine. It makes it easier for Tim to ignore him back; he has work and other important things to attend to. At first, it’s difficult. The presence in his head is so foreign that he struggles to pretend it doesn't exist, but as the months go by, it gets easier—like background hum.

Ignoring the emotions is harder. They are constantly there, bleeding into his own and making him feel completely out of sorts. Sometimes the kid is just so… sad that Tim can't help but feel it; sometimes he mistakes it for his own grief, and the line where he ends and the other begins starts to blur.

Tim tries not to think about the implications of why a ten-year-old is so unhappy.

There are certain moments where everything inevitably comes rushing back—sometimes through mundane, everyday thoughts. Things like deciding what to have for breakfast, whether to wear one outfit or another, or his schedule for the day.

It’s through these moments that Tim notices his soulmate is likely a rather privileged child, judging by random thoughts about servants and odd attitudes a ten-year-old definitely shouldn't have.

It becomes obvious that his soulmate is no ordinary kid: he doesn't think about cartoons or trending video games. The boy in his head thinks about training; he spends hours a day studying languages, hard sciences, and etiquette. But mostly, he thinks about fighting styles and ways to become more… lethal.

Tim suppresses the boy’s thoughts as best he can until he can almost ignore they’re there; it’s easier that way.

He’s also very careful with his own thoughts, especially those related to his vigilante identity. He even asks Bruce for a few tips, considering the older man had to hide his identity from his own soulmate in the past.

Of course, that was before they knew Bruce’s soulmate was Superman himself.

He is still seventeen, two months after the bond formed, when the boy speaks to him again.

"Are you awake?"

Tim doesn't think the kid is talking to him, so the thought passes through his filter without acknowledgment, remaining a hum in the back of his head while he patrols Gotham.

"I am talking to you, stupid soulmate."

Well, it’s hard to ignore him after a confrontation that blunt.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"I asked if you were awake."

"Ah… Yes."

"Yes, that is obvious now. Are you stupid or something?"

Tim suppresses a prickle of irritation, trying to remind himself that the brat in his head is exactly that: a child.

He’s in the middle of a mission; he could just tell the kid not to bother him and get back to work. However, beneath the boy’s rude comments, he can still feel his emotions, and it’s hard to ignore the sense of vulnerability and insecurity mingling in his chest.

"What’s wrong?" he asks, ignoring the previous snide remark. He feels a shiver in his chest and the insecurity grows; he knows it isn't his, but that doesn't stop a pang of compassion and worry from filling him.

He realizes he’s worried about the kid.

"I am going to meet my father."

He doesn't offer much more information, which doesn't help Tim understand the situation or how he can help, so he forces himself to be the adult in the room (which, technically, he is).

"I’m going to need a little more context, baby."

There is a long silence after that. Tim begins to think he won't get an answer, but the uncomfortable tugging in his chest keeps him in place, waiting.

He didn't even think about the nickname; it slipped out without his consent. It isn't meant to be affectionate—just a reminder of the ever-present age gap between them.

Tim tries to ignore the surge of warmth in his chest right after he says it, like liquid honey melting. He knows it: that emotion isn't his. That pleasant feeling of warmth isn't his.

But then the insecurity returns, growing and growing, quickly joined by regret. He imagines the boy is doubting whether he should continue, and Tim finds himself desperately wishing the kid would trust him, for some reason.

"I have lived with my mother since my birth. I do not know my father and I am not sure I wish to, but my mother insists."

"What are you worried about? Is he a bad person or something?"

"It is complicated.

It is just… Mother says he must train me. That it will be good for me to be with him. That he will make me a better soldier."

A better soldier. A better soldier. A better soldier.

The words loop in his head; he knows the boy can hear them and feel his confusion.

"Why should he train you? You’re a child, not a soldier."

Brave words coming from him—Batman’s partner at thirteen. But he believes it nonetheless; regardless of his own personal choices, he firmly believes that shouldn't be the future for a child.

He goes out into the streets every night hoping to make a difference, however small—hoping that somehow his actions will be enough so that another kid like him doesn't have to step up and take the job into his own hands.

"You would not understand. This was a mistake. Goodbye."

Except Tim does understand.

He doesn't know if that makes it worse or better. He doesn't know if he’s interpreting the kid’s words correctly, but suddenly, everything starts to click.

The vague thoughts about training, fighting styles, poisons, weapons.

It’s not that he’d overlooked them initially; he knew what they implied and chose to ignore them out of a selfish desire to not have a soulmate—to pretend this wasn't happening to him.

"I can't say I understand everything you’re telling me, but…

You’ll do great. I’m sure he’ll like you. Don't overthink it.

You’re his son, after all."

He didn't get an explicit answer after that, but the insecurity in his chest faded until it was almost bearable, and everything went quiet about an hour later, as it always did when the boy went to sleep.

Three days pass since that conversation. Three days in which the silence in his head is almost absolute—not because the boy isn't thinking, but simply because no thought is explicitly directed at him. Save for occasional bursts of impatience and a cold determination that made his blood run cold, everything continues as before.

Tim is in the Batcave, reviewing files on the main computer, when Alfred comes down with that stoic expression he usually reserves for global catastrophes or burnt dinners.

"Master Timothy, I believe your presence is required upstairs. Master Bruce… has a visitor."

There is something in Alfred’s tone that makes Tim take the stairs two at a time.

When he reaches the study, the tension in the air is so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. Bruce is standing there, pale as if he’s seen a ghost (which, in his line of work, isn’t unusual, but this feels different). And standing across from him, with a posture so rigid it looks painful, is a boy.

A small boy with olive skin and green eyes that track Bruce as if evaluating a threat.

"Father," the boy says. It isn't a question; it’s a statement of fact.

Tim stops in the doorway, confused. Father?

That’s when it hits him. A jolt in his chest—a surge of adrenaline and judgment that doesn’t belong to him.

"He is taller than I expected. He looks strong. But his guard is down."

Tim blinks, shaking his head. Not now, he thinks, trying to shove his soulmate’s voice to the back of his mind. He needs to focus.

"Who are you?" Tim asks, taking a step forward.

The boy turns his head slowly toward him. His eyes narrow with a contempt so visceral that Tim nearly flinches.

"My name is Damian," the boy says with an unnatural coldness. "And I am the son of Bruce Wayne."

Bruce lets out a shaky breath, looking at Tim and then back at the boy.

"Tim, he’s… Talia says he is my son."

Tim’s brain grinds to a halt. Son. Bruce has a son.

But his soulmate won’t shut up. The voice in his head grows louder, sharper, almost deafening due to the proximity—though, in that moment, Tim attributes the intensity to his own stress.

"Who is this intruder? He stands beside Father as if he has a right to be there."

Tim frowns. The boy, Damian, is staring daggers at him.

"And who are you?" Damian demands.

"I’m Tim. Tim Drake. I’m…" He hesitates for a second. "Your father’s partner."

"Partner?" Damian snorts, a short, cruel laugh. "Father does not need partners. He needs soldiers. And you look weak."

"Pathetic. His shoulders are tense. He does not know how to stand. He is an impostor."

The coincidence is jarring. Tim feels a wave of déjà vu. Soldier. His soulmate had talked about being a soldier just a few nights ago. But he doesn't have time to analyze it because Damian is pacing the room, inspecting the paintings and books as if he already owns the place.

The hours that follow are a blur of DNA tests, hushed discussions between Bruce and Alfred, and Tim trying to be civil to a child who clearly wants him dead.

Bruce asks Tim to show Damian to his room "while the adults talk." Tim agrees, even though the headache caused by the bond is becoming unbearable. The boy’s thoughts are a constant scream of evaluation, threat, calculation, and judgment.

If he weren't trapped in the unfortunate situation of dealing with Bruce’s son, he might have stopped for a second to ask his soulmate if everything was alright.

Tim and Damian walk up the stairs in silence.

"This will be your room," Tim says, opening the door to one of the guest suites. "If you need anything, my room is at the end of the hall."

"He lives here?"

Damian doesn't go inside. He stands still in the hallway, watching him.

"You are the one who wears the suit," Damian says suddenly. Not "Robin." The suit.

"I’m Robin, yes."

"Not anymore," Damian says.

Tim sighs, exhausted. "Look, Damian, I know this is hard for you, but—"

"It is mine. It is my birthright."

And then, it happens.

Tim’s mind is flooded with an image. It’s not like the verbal thoughts he’s used to; it’s more of a visualization. A blurry, foreign projection of an attack: Step forward, hip pivot, throat strike, leg sweep.

Tim sees the attack in his mind a fraction of a second before it happens in reality.

His body reacts on instinct, blocking the blow Damian aims at his throat. The impact is heavy. Damian is fast—incredibly fast for a ten-year-old.

"What is wrong with you?!" Tim yells, backing away.

But Damian doesn't stop. He pulls a dagger—where the hell did he get a dagger?—and lunges again.

"Impostor."

The voice in his head screams at the same time Damian shouts aloud. The sound is a perfect echo.

Tim dodges the blade by millimeters, catching Damian’s wrist and twisting it to disarm him. They both hit the floor, rolling. Tim uses his weight and height to pin the boy down, holding his arms against the carpet.

Both are breathing heavily.

"Let me go!" Damian growls, struggling like a wild animal.

"Stop trying to kill me!" Tim yells back.

And then, in the heat of the moment, Tim accidentally projects a thought. It’s a mental scream, raw and unfiltered, driven by panic and adrenaline.

"Stay still for one damn second, you brat!"

Damian freezes.

Not because Tim has pinned him better. He physically locks up, his muscles going slack from pure shock. His green eyes go wide, staring at Tim with a mix of horror and recognition.

Because Damian heard that. Not with his ears.

Tim gasps, realizing what just happened. The silence in the hallway is absolute, but the noise in their connection is deafening.

Damian stares at him, his chest heaving.

"You?"

Damian’s voice sounds small in his head, wavering for the first time since he arrived.

Tim slowly lets go of Damian’s wrists, pulling back as if he’d been burned. He sits back on his heels, staring at the boy who just tried to stab him.

The boy who has been in his head for months. The boy he tried to comfort three nights ago. The boy who is his soulmate.

"Oh, no," Tim whispers, putting his hands to his head. "Oh, my God, no."

Damian sits up too, straightening his clothes with trembling hands, but he doesn't look away from Tim. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

"You," Damian says aloud, his voice thick with accusation and horrified disbelief. "You are the idiot who wouldn't let me sleep."

Tim doesn't answer, still in shock. They just stare at each other.

"Father cannot know of this," Damian says immediately, his face closing up again into that mask of coldness, though Tim can feel the panic vibrating through the bond. "If he finds out I am bonded to an… an incompetent competitor, he will send me back."

Tim lets out a hysterical laugh. "That’s what you’re worried about? That Bruce will send you back? Damian, you just tried to kill me! Your soulmate!"

"I did not know it was you," Damian defends himself, crossing his arms. "Had I known, I would have aimed for the legs. To incapacitate, not to kill."

"How thoughtful," Tim says, feeling the migraine return with a vengeance. "This is a nightmare. This has to be a nightmare."

"You are not what I expected," Damian thinks, and it’s so loud Tim winces. "You are… disappointing."

"Get out of my head," Tim growls.

"You get out of mine," Damian snaps back, standing up and retrieving his dagger from the floor. He sheathes it but hesitates for a moment. "Will you tell Father?"

Tim looks at him. He sees the child assassin, but he also feels the scared boy who just wanted to please his father three days ago. He feels Damian’s loneliness as clearly as he feels the carpet beneath his knees.

He figures this is a conversation they’ll have to have eventually, but he decides that’s a problem for Future Tim. He doesn't even want to begin thinking about the implications of being bonded to the biological son of the man who was more of a father to Tim than his own ever was.

"No," Tim sighs, standing up. "I won't tell him. But we have rules. No daggers. And no trying to kill me in my sleep."

Damian considers this, tilting his head. "Acceptable. For now."

He turns around and walks into his room, slamming the door shut.

Tim is left alone in the hallway.

"You’re still a bossy baby," Tim thinks, testing the waters.

There is a pause. And then, through the closed door and the walls of the Manor, comes the reply:

"And you are still an imbecile. Go away, I wish to meditate."

Tim walks into his own room, leans against the wall, and slides down to the floor, burying his face in his hands.

"I’m screwed," he whispers to himself. "I am so screwed… Bruce is going to kill me."

The following two weeks are, in a word, hell.

Living with your soulmate is one thing. Living with your soulmate when he’s a ten-year-old child assassin raised in a hostile environment, who actively despises you and wants your job, is quite another. But living with him and having to hide the fact that you share a psychic bond from Batman—the world’s greatest detective—is just plain ridiculous.

Tim has developed a technique: he calls it "white noise." He spends the day humming catchy pop songs in his head to block out Damian’s thoughts.

Damian, for his part, loves to recite classical literature in Arabic or mentally review human anatomy, detailing every lethal pressure point, just to be annoying.

But the real trouble starts with training.

It’s Thursday afternoon. Bruce has decided it’s time to evaluate the "synergy" between Robin and his biological son. In Batman-speak, that means: Fight until one of you drops; I’ll be taking notes.

They are on the training mats in the Cave. Bruce stands with his arms crossed, watching like a hawk.

"No weapons," Bruce orders. "Hand-to-hand only."

Tim and Damian lock eyes.

"I am going to break your jaw, Drake."

Damian’s thought is so clear and sharp that Tim has to catch himself to keep from physically rolling his eyes.

"Try it, brat. And stop projecting your twisted ideas at me; you’re too loud."

"I am not projecting! You are the one eavesdropping."

"Begin," Bruce says.

Damian lunges into the attack immediately. He is fast but impulsive—a ball of League of Assassins fury and technique.

In a normal situation, Tim would have some trouble. Damian is smaller, but he’s vicious and has a low center of gravity. However, this is not a normal situation. Tim sees the strike before Damian’s muscle even twitches, much like that strange vision he had when Damian attacked him the first time they met.

It’s like having a real-time instruction manual. Tim doesn't even have to think. He blocks the boy’s fist, ignores the feint, and lifts his leg just in time for Damian’s kick to whistle through thin air.

Damian grunts in frustration.

"Stop doing that! That is cheating!"

"Not my fault you think your attacks out loud," Tim replies, seizing an opening to shove Damian back.

Damian recovers with a flip, landing in a crouch. His frustration leaks through the bond like boiling water: shame, anger, a desperate need to impress Bruce.

Tim feels an involuntary pang of sympathy, which distracts him for half a second.

Damian pounces on that distraction (and the fact that Tim dropped his mental guard) to charge again. This time, Damian does something clever: he stops thinking in words. He moves on pure instinct and muscle memory, silencing his mind.

The blow connects with Tim’s ribs. It hurts.

"Good," Bruce says, nodding. "Damian, nice recovery. Tim, you got distracted."

"Won’t happen again," Tim pants.

They go at it again. And this is where things get weird.

As the fight progresses, they start to fall into a rhythm. It’s not the rhythm of two enemies fighting; it’s something closer to a dance.

Under any other circumstances, it would likely be rewarding to watch—something beautiful, perfect synchrony. Except they weren't in an ideal situation; they were right there, fighting in front of Bruce.

Damian thinks. Tim moves left to intercept. Damian sees Tim move and thinks again, changing his mind. Tim jumps.

From the outside, it must look impressive. Perfect blocks, millimeter-precise dodges. They look like two sides of the same coin. There are no mistakes; they flow around each other.

"Your left guard is garbage," Damian criticizes as he throws a punch that Tim deflects easily.

"You lean too hard on your right leg when you get tired," Tim counters, sweeping that very leg.

Damian falls but rolls and stands up instantly. Both are sweating, breathing hard, but there’s a strange euphoria in the bond. Two ragged breaths, vibrant electricity under the skin—Tim doesn't even know at what point he started smiling.

"Stop!" Bruce’s voice cracks like a whip.

Both stop dead in their tracks, turning toward Batman.

Bruce does not look pleased. He looks… suspicious. He approaches them, his eyes narrowed (though he’s taken off the cowl, the Batman stare remains).

"How long have you two been practicing this routine?" Bruce asks.

Tim tenses up. "What routine? There is no routine, B. He’s trying to decapitate me."

"Don't lie," Bruce says, pacing around them. "Tim, you dodged Damian’s third strike before he even shifted his weight to throw it. And Damian, you corrected your posture in mid-air in response to a move Tim hadn't even made yet."

The silence in the Cave is heavy.

"He knows," Damian thinks. The boy’s panic is cold and sharp. "He will know. He will know I am flawed and tied to you."

Tim takes a deep breath, ignoring the sting of pain. He feels Damian’s fear and, instinctively, sends a wave of calm through the bond. He doesn't know how he does it; he just pushes a sensation of stability toward the other side.

"I’ve been studying him," Tim says aloud, keeping his voice steady. "You’ve been leaving us alone in the house for two weeks. I’ve watched how he moves. He’s predictable."

"I am not predictable!" Damian explodes, offended, accidentally playing along. "Drake is simply lucky!"

Bruce watches them for a moment longer, analyzing their micro-expressions. Tim maintains his best poker face. Damian just looks like he wants to murder someone, which is his natural state, so it works.

Finally, Bruce sighs.

"Coordination," Bruce says, though he still sounds skeptical. "It’s unusual to see that level of synchrony in two people who just met."

Bruce turns back toward the computer. "Enough for today. Go shower."

As soon as Bruce is far enough away, Tim and Damian let out the breath they were holding.

"That was close," Tim thinks.

Damian crosses his arms, scowling at him, but the hostility is less sharp than before.

"You are a decent liar, Drake. Father believed you."

"I didn't exactly lie; I have been watching you. It’s part of the job."

Damian snorts and turns to head toward the locker rooms. But before they mentally disconnect to go their separate ways, Tim feels something strange coming from the boy.

It’s a small feeling, almost imperceptible, buried under layers of pride and arrogance.

It’s… gratitude.

"Do not get used to it," Damian snaps mentally, slamming the locker room door shut and abruptly cutting off the emotional transmission.

Tim is left alone on the mat, a tired, crooked smile on his face.

Maybe, just maybe, they won't kill each other before Christmas.

Three weeks have passed and, against all odds, no one is dead.

Life at Wayne Manor has settled into a strange and precariously balanced routine. To the untrained eye, Tim and Damian tolerate each other. They ignore one another in the hallways, refrain from (physical) fighting during patrol, and maintain a prudent distance at dinner.

But beneath the surface, it’s constant chaos.

Tim has discovered that living with Damian in his head is like having a radio permanently tuned to a station that only broadcasts complaints, critical judgments of modern art, and the occasional craving for sweet treats that the boy refuses to admit out loud.

The problem is, they’re getting used to it.

It’s Sunday morning. Dick has come to visit from Blüdhaven, bringing his usual chaotic, loud energy that fills the dining room. Bruce is at the head of the table, hidden behind the newspaper, and Alfred is serving breakfast.

"So I told him: 'You can't rob a bank wearing a clown mask in this city, it’s in poor taste,'" Dick is saying, gesturing with a fork. "But the guy wouldn't listen."

Tim is half-asleep, stirring his scrambled eggs. Last night was long, and his coffee hasn't kicked in yet.

"Grayson talks too much," Damian’s voice echoes in his head. It’s a bored thought, lacking real malice—just an observation.

Tim takes a sip of his coffee.

"Leave him be. He’s just happy to see us."

"He is unnecessarily loud. And he took the last chocolate chip oat pancake. I wanted that one."

Tim looks up. Sure enough, the pancake platter is empty, except for one whole-wheat pancake that nobody wants. Dick has the last chocolate one on his plate, untouched.

Without really thinking about it—moved by the hum of irritation emanating from Damian (and perhaps because it’s easier to give him what he wants so he’ll shut up)—Tim reaches out.

"Dick, pass me the syrup, please," Tim says aloud.

As Dick turns to reach for the syrup, Tim seizes the opening. With a speed that would make any pickpocket proud, he nabs the chocolate pancake from Dick’s plate and slides it smoothly onto Damian’s.

Damian doesn't even blink. He doesn't look at Tim. He doesn't say thank you. He simply begins to cut the pancake with precision.

"Acceptable," the boy thinks. The irritation in the bond vanishes, replaced by petulant satisfaction.

Dick turns back with the syrup. "Here you go, Timmy… wait."

Dick blinks, looking at his own plate. Then he looks at Tim. "Did you just steal my pancake?" Dick asks, offended but amused.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tim says, pouring syrup over his eggs—a necessary sacrifice to maintain his alibi.

"He has it!" Dick accuses, pointing at Damian. "Dami, did you see him steal it?"

Damian looks up, his mouth full of chocolate, and puts on his best innocent face—which, strangely enough, looks a lot like Bruce’s poker face.

"I do not pay attention to Drake’s childish behavior."

Bruce lowers the newspaper an inch, sighs, and raises it back up. He clearly decides not to intervene in breakfast disputes.

Dick narrows his eyes, looking at both of them. "Weird."

But the real slip-up happens five minutes later.

Alfred enters with a fresh pitcher of orange juice and a basket of toast. The atmosphere has calmed down. Dick is now talking about a complicated case in Blüdhaven.

"…the problem is I can't figure out the pattern. They always strike in industrial zones, but the days are random."

Damian is reading an advanced military history textbook while he eats, seemingly ignoring the conversation. Or so it appears. In Tim’s head, however, Damian is picking Dick’s case apart.

"It is not random. It is the shipping cycle of the railway company he mentioned this morning. Freight trains arrive at the industrial zones on those specific days to avoid passenger traffic. It is obvious."

The thought is so clear and logical that Tim forgets for a split second that no one else heard it. To him, it was as if Damian had shouted it.

"It’s the trains, Dick," Tim says, cutting his older brother off. "Check the freight schedules at the railway station."

The table goes silent.

Dick’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. Bruce lowers the paper completely this time, looking at Tim with interest.

Damian tenses in his chair.

"That…" Dick frowns, processing the information. "That makes a lot of sense. In fact, it makes all the sense in the world. How did you know that? I didn't even give you the names of the companies."

Tim freezes.

Crap.

He didn't know the names of the companies. Damian hadn't thought them, but Damian had deduced the pattern based on info he'd discussed with Dick earlier. Tim had simply… repeated the conclusion.

"Uh…" Tim scrambles for an excuse. "Intuition. And I read something about railway strikes in Blüdhaven last week."

Dick doesn't look convinced. He looks at Tim, and then, slowly, his blue eyes slide toward Damian.

Damian hasn't looked up from his book, but his knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping his fork.

"Imbecile," Damian thinks sharply. "You are going to get us caught."

Dick sets his fork down. His expression shifts. Suddenly, he isn't the joking older brother; he’s the first Robin, the detective trained by Batman before any of them.

"Tim," Dick says softly, in a voice so low it should only be audible to Tim sitting right next to him.

"What?" Tim responds.

Dick doesn't answer verbally. Instead, he makes a gesture toward the salt. It’s an obvious, silent "pass the salt, please." Damian has his head down, stirring his pancake listlessly. Damian doesn't see the gesture.

It’s a test. The salt is right next to Damian’s elbow at the far end of the table, nowhere near Tim.

Tim looks at Dick with annoyance but starts to reach out. However, Damian—out of pure conditioned reflex from the last few weeks of training and cohabitating—grabs the salt shaker and slides it across the table to Dick.

He doesn't even know why he did it; something in his head played back through the bond and he just… did it.

Dick catches the salt shaker with one hand.

The silence is absolute. Even Alfred has stopped, coffee pot hovering in mid-air.

"I asked Tim," Dick says quietly, looking at Damian. "And you didn't even look up. You just… reacted."

Damian opens his mouth to defend himself, but nothing comes out.

Bruce is watching the scene with that terrifying intensity he uses when solving a five-dimensional puzzle. He looks at Tim. He looks at Damian. He looks at the salt shaker.

"Damian," Bruce says, his voice grave. "Why did you pass him the salt?"

"I saw him reach out," Damian says, feeling a cold sweat run down his back. He knows it’s a weak excuse—he never actually looked up.

"No," Dick intervenes. "It was like… like you just knew. An immediate reaction. No words."

Dick leans forward, lowering his voice. "Guys, is there something you want to tell us? Because the last time I saw that level of non-verbal coordination we all know how that ended."

Tim’s heart skips a beat. He knows. Or he suspects. God, Dick is way too close. Damian, sensing Tim’s rising panic, decides the best defense is a good offense. He jumps to his feet, knocking his chair back with a loud clatter.

"This is ridiculous!" Damian shouts, his childish voice full of feigned indignation (and a hint of real fear). "Grayson is hallucinating from lack of sleep! I am going to train!"

And he bolts from the dining room before anyone can stop him.

Tim stays seated, feeling Bruce and Dick’s eyes boring into him. Damian’s retreat was tactically poor, but effective at breaking the interrogation.

"He’s ten," Tim says, standing up as well and picking up his plate with hands he hopes aren't shaking. "Kids are weird. I have work."

Tim walks out of the dining room quickly, feeling their stares on the back of his neck until he rounds the corner of the hallway.

The moment he’s out of sight, he leans against the wall and exhales a shaky breath.

"That was awful," he thinks into the void.

Damian’s reply comes instantly from somewhere in the manor. He sounds just as rattled.

"Grayson is too meddlesome. We must be more careful."

"We? You’re the one who obeyed an order given to me."

"And you are the one who has no filter between my brain and your mouth."

There is a pause. A small moment of shared silence where both acknowledge how close they came.

Tim doesn't even know what he’s afraid of. The logical thing would be to tell the truth; he knows Bruce wouldn't disown Damian for something like this. He knows that, objectively, it’s not like they chose to be soulmates.

But he’s terrified. Terrified of what it means for his place in the Wayne family. When his parents died, Bruce was simply there—he had been there since long before. Bruce was the closest thing to a father he had, and Dick was undoubtedly his brother… but what would they think of him once they knew he was bonded to little Damian Wayne? It felt unforgivable for many reasons, not to mention the age gap.

Tim sighs, pulling himself back to reality, focusing.

"Thank you for the pancake," Damian adds after a moment, suddenly soft.

Tim smiles, despite the fear.

"You're welcome, baby."

Two months pass.

"Normalcy" at Wayne Manor is a relative concept, but they’ve managed something akin to a truce. There are no more assassination attempts in the hallways, and training sessions are less "to the death" and more "competitive."

However, one thing remains unchanged.

Tim feels it all the time. It’s a constant background noise, like the hum of an old refrigerator that never shuts off. It is Damian’s anxiety.

It’s not normal anxiety. It’s not about a test or a game; it’s survival anxiety.

At night, when the house is silent, Tim feels the waves of fear emanating from the room at the end of the hall. Damian is awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking.

"If I fail the next mission, Father will see I am not useful."

"If I am not useful, I have no purpose."

"If I have no purpose, they will send me back."

"I do not want to go back. I like Pennyworth’s food. I like the garden. I like that here, no one tries to poison me in my sleep."

It’s heartbreaking.

From his own bed, Tim closes his eyes and tries to block it out, but it’s impossible to ignore the desperation of a child who believes love is a business transaction.

In the League of Assassins, worth is proven with blood. Damian arrived in Gotham with a simple plan: kill the current Robin, take the mantle, and secure his position.

But then he discovered that the current Robin is the voice in his head. His other half.

And Damian, with all his lethal training and arrogance, hit an immovable wall: even he couldn't kill his soulmate. Not just because he’s biologically programmed not to, but because deep down, Damian doesn't want to be alone inside his own mind ever again.

Soulmates aren't a common topic in the League. Yes, everyone knows they exist. Yes, some even have them. But it’s considered private—something foreign and intimate, a problem for you and no one else, as long as it doesn't compromise your training or get in the way of the League's objectives.

But Damian knows how much he clung to the idea that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as alone in this world as he thought. Turning ten and hearing the voice of a sleepy teenager in his head was simply confirmation of what he already suspected, and he held onto that with everything he had.

So, Damian is stuck. He cannot take Robin by force, and he believes it will never be given to him by merit as long as Drake is there.

Tim knows this. Tim feels it.

And Tim makes a decision.

It’s Friday night. Bruce is at a charity gala (forced into it by Alfred), and Dick has returned to Blüdhaven. They are alone in the Cave.

Damian is standing in front of the display cases. He is staring at the Robin suit. Not Jason’s, but Tim’s. He looks at it with a mix of reverence and hunger.

Tim approaches from behind. He makes no sound, but he knows Damian felt him arrive through the bond.

"It’s too big for you," Tim says, breaking the silence.

Damian doesn't flinch. He keeps his eyes on the suit. "I will grow."

"You’re desperate for it, aren't you?" Tim leans against one of the computer consoles, crossing his arms.

Damian turns slowly. His face is a mask of indifference, but Tim can feel the defensive surge of panic and longing hitting his mind.

"I am the blood heir. It is my right."

"Yeah, yeah, blood, heritage, whatever you say," Tim says, waving a hand dismissively. "But it’s not just that. You’re afraid."

Damian bristles like a cornered cat. "I am not afraid."

Tim doesn't bother mentioning that the lie is useless. He is his soulmate; he just knows. He can feel his fear, his sadness, his happiness, his gratitude, his anger, his pain. Tim can feel it all.

"You’re afraid that if you aren't Robin, Bruce won't need you," Tim says, soft but relentless.

The ensuing silence is heavy. In Tim’s mind, Damian’s thoughts become a chaotic mess of static, trying to hide the fact that Tim just hit the nail on the head.

"Father accepts me for my skills," Damian hisses, though he sounds unconvinced.

Tim sighs and uncrosses his arms. He walks until he is standing right in front of Damian. The boy is short and has to look up to meet his eyes, but his chin is tilted with defiant pride.

"I’m tired, Damian."

Damian blinks, confused by the change of subject. "Then go to sleep. Your endurance is pathetic."

"Not tired of sleep," Tim says, reaching a hand toward the display case where the 'R' emblem shines. "I’m tired of being Robin."

A lie. He doesn't think he’ll ever truly be tired of being Robin, but he knows if he says that, Damian will never accept it.

His words stop Damian in his tracks. The boy’s thoughts spin a mile a minute.

"Robin is… something magical," Tim continues, looking at the suit. "It saved my life when I needed it. It gave me a purpose. But Robin is a mantle of learning. It’s for the partner, for the student. And I think I’ve learned what I needed to learn."

Tim looks back at Damian. "I think Dick was right. You can't be Robin forever."

"What are you talking about, Drake?" Damian asks, his voice trembling slightly.

Tim reaches for the glass door of the case and pulls out the yellow cape. The sound of the fabric sliding is strangely loud in the Cave. Then, he takes the mask and holds both items out.

"It’s yours," Tim says.

Damian takes a step back, horrified and fascinated at the same time. "What?"

"Robin. The mantle. The name. It’s yours."

"Father did not authorize this."

"Bruce doesn't decide who Robin is. Robin decides who Robin is." Tim holds the mask out further. "And I decide it’s you."

Damian looks at the mask in Tim’s hand as if it were a bomb or a priceless jewel.

"Why?" Damian whispers. And then, through the bond, the true question leaks out—vulnerable and small: "Why are you giving this to me? I tried to kill you. I hate you. You hate me."

Tim smiles—a sad but genuine smile.

"Because you need it more than I do. And because you’re good, Damian. You’re a headache—literally. You’re arrogant and exasperating, but you’re good. Gotham will be safe with you."

Tim takes a step forward, takes Damian’s rigid hand, and places the mask in his palm.

"Besides," Tim adds, winking, "this way you’ll stop thinking about plans to 'permanently incapacitate' me and I can finally get some sleep."

Damian looks at the mask in his hand. His fingers close around it.

The storm in his head—that constant noise of anxiety and fear of rejection—stops. Suddenly, there is silence. A clean, quiet silence.

"I do not…" Damian swallows hard. He looks up at Tim. "I will not thank you. It is my right."

"I didn't expect you to," Tim laughs.

"But…" Damian hesitates. His green eyes shimmer. "If I am Robin… what are you?"

Ah, the million-dollar question.

Tim looks out into the darkness of the Cave, toward where the files of the cold case he’s been working on rest, alongside blueprints for his own projects. He’s been thinking about what Dick told him. About stepping out from the shadow of the Bat.

"I’ll think of something," Tim says, feeling lighter than he has in years. "Someone has to keep an eye on you so you don't kill the criminals, right?"

Damian snorts, but there’s a small, almost imperceptible smile at the corner of his lips.

He clutches the mask to his chest.

"Thank you, Timothy," Damian thinks.

It’s the first time he’s called him by his name.

Tim turns to leave, feeling the warm gratitude of his soulmate filling his chest.

"Make me proud, Dami."

"Tt. I shall be the greatest Robin history has ever seen. You will be a mere footnote."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, baby."

"Not a baby!"

Tim climbs the stairs toward the manor, leaving Damian in the Cave. His future is uncertain; he has no code name, no suit, and no defined plan.

But it’s refreshing. For the first time in a long while, his mind is quiet. And so is Damian’s.

The night in Gotham has a particular flavor: a mix of pollution, wet concrete, and imminent danger. For Tim, however, this night tastes of uncertainty.

He no longer wears the yellow cape. He doesn't wear the red vest, nor the "R" over his heart. He’s dressed in a black Kevlar tactical suit—functional and austere, no insignia, no symbol. He is a shadow several yards behind Nightwing and Robin. A "footnote," as he’d joked with Damian, though the reality feels more like being in limbo.

Dick, glowing with his usual charisma, lands on the gargoyle beside him.

"I still don't get what you're doing here," Dick says, adjusting his gloves. "You gave him the mantle. It was an incredibly mature gesture, seriously—I’m proud. But… why come out? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, catching up on sleep? I thought you two hated each other."

Tim doesn't take his eyes off the small figure leaping across the rooftops a few yards ahead. The new Robin. The yellow cape flutters with an arrogance Tim himself never possessed.

"Someone has to make sure he doesn't stab simple pickpockets," Tim replies, shrugging.

"I’m here for that," Dick says, patting him on the back. "I’m the official big brother. I can handle the kid. Besides, I repeat: I thought you two hated each other."

Tim grimaces under his black mask. If only you knew.

"It’s complicated, N."

"'Complicated' is this family’s middle name," Dick sighs, before activating his comms. "Robin! Wait up! Don't stray too far from the perimeter."

Damian’s response over the comm is a snort full of static and disdain. "I do not require a babysitter, Nightwing. I could cover more ground if I did not have to wait for you and… the Useless Shadow."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Useless Shadow" is the new pet name Damian has given him in his mind, though aloud it sounds much more irritating.

"Don't wander off, baby. There were Scarecrow sightings in this area recently," Tim thinks toward the boy, using the bond.

"Be silent, Drake. You are not my nanny," Damian responds instantly. His mind feels sharp, focused, vibrating with the thrill of his first official patrol. There is pride there—so much pride—and a desperate desire to impress Dick and Bruce (who is monitoring from the Cave).

The patrol continues for an hour without incident. It’s boring, which is good for a first night, but fatal for the patience of a child raised by assassins.

Then, the mistake happens.

A silent alarm at a chemical warehouse by the docks.

Dick gives the hand signal for "stealth advance." Tim moves to the left flank. Damian is supposed to take the right.

But when Tim reaches his position and looks across the skylight, the right flank is empty.

"Nightwing, I don't have eyes on Robin," Tim whispers into the comm.

"What?" Dick’s voice tenses. "He was right behind me a minute ago. Robin, report."

Silence on the line.

"Robin, status report. Now," Dick insists, using that tone of voice he inherited from Batman.

Only static.

"Oracle," Dick calls out, lunging toward the edge of the roof, "track his location."

"I’m on it," Barbara Gordon’s voice sounds calm but rapid in Tim’s ear. "His GPS disconnected. Last signal was… two blocks ago. He diverted."

"Damn his pride," Tim mutters. "I’m going after him."

"No, you handle things here," Dick orders. "I’ll find Robin. Oracle, give me access to the area’s security cameras."

While Dick argues with Barbara and checks his holographic gauntlet, Tim steps away into the darkness of an industrial chimney.

He doesn't need satellites. He doesn't need cameras.

He closes his eyes and dives into his own mind, searching for that invisible thread that has been tied to his brain for months. Normally, Damian’s mind is a bright beacon of noisy thoughts.

"Damian," Tim calls out mentally. "Where are you? Stop playing around."

Silence.

Not the silence of someone sleeping. It’s a dense silence, as if a cable had been cut. Tim frowns. His heart starts beating faster.

"Dami, baby. Answer me. It’s not funny."

Nothing.

And then, suddenly, the bond snaps open.

It’s not words. It’s not a coherent thought.

It is a scream.

Not an auditory scream, but a psychic shriek of pure terror that hits Tim with the force of a freight train.

Tim gasps, clutching his head, his knees giving out instantly. He hits the dirty rooftop floor, unable to breathe.

Fear Gas. He recognizes the sensation.

But Tim hasn't inhaled it. Damian has.

And through their connection, Tim is feeling every ounce of the effect without the visual hallucinations. It is just the distilled emotion—raw and unfiltered.

He feels Damian’s fear. A childish, primitive, overwhelming fear.

"Father is disappointed. I am not useful. I am flawed." "Stay away! No, I do not want to go back!" "I am alone. I will always be alone." "Timothy hates me. Everyone hates me." "I wish I had never been born."

The pain is physical. Tim feels as if his own chest is being ripped open. Damian’s anguish mixes with his own, creating a vortex of panic that blinds him. He can’t even catch his breath.

"Hey!" he hears Dick’s voice in the distance, distorted as if underwater.

"Found him!" Dick yells into the comm. "Oracle has a signal on the suit. He’s in the basement of Warehouse 4B. I’m going in. Tim…!"

Dick turns, ready to fire his grapple, and stops dead.

Tim isn't behind him.

Tim is on the ground in a fetal position, clawing at the asphalt with gloved fingers until it breaks. He is hyperventilating, letting out choked sounds that resemble sobs of agony.

"Tim?" Dick rushes to him, forgetting Damian’s location for a second. "Tim! What’s happening? Did you get shot?"

Dick rolls him over. Tim’s eyes are open but glazed, his pupils dilated by a terror that doesn't match what he is seeing.

"D-Dami…" Tim gasps, grabbing Dick’s arm with desperate strength. "Dami… hurts… he’s scared… make it stop…"

"Damian?" Dick is confused, his brain trying to process the situation. "Tim, look at me. Where does it hurt? Were you attacked?"

"HELP HIM!" Tim screams, his voice breaking into a gut-wrenching wail as a new wave of Damian’s pain strikes his chest.

In Tim’s head, he feels the phantom sensation of swords piercing his body, the feeling of falling into an endless abyss. He can’t distinguish what is real and what belongs to Damian. His body goes into shock from sensory overload.

Dick pales. He’s never seen Tim like this. Tim is the stoic one, the logical one. To see him crumble in seconds without a visible wound is terrifying.

"Oracle," Dick says, his voice trembling, "I need backup. NOW. Tim is… Tim is down. I don't know what's wrong. It looks like a psychotic break or a seizure."

"Batman is two minutes out," Barbara responds urgently. "Nightwing, get to Robin. B will handle Tim. If Robin is with Scarecrow, every second counts."

Dick looks at Tim, who is writhing on the ground moaning names and incoherent pleas, and then looks toward the warehouse where his other younger brother is. It’s an impossible choice.

Then, a giant black shadow lands beside them. Batman’s cape envelops the scene.

"Go for Damian," Batman grunts. He asks no questions.

Dick nods and leaps toward the warehouse, his heart in his throat.

Bruce kneels beside Tim. He pulls out a penlight and checks his pupils. "Son, listen to me. Did you take something? What happened?"

Tim can't see him. He only sees the darkness Damian is seeing.

"G-get him out…" Tim whispers, tears streaming down his mask. "Please, Bruce… he’s alone… he’s so scared…"

Bruce tenses. Is Tim talking about Damian?

But there’s no time. Tim convulses once and then goes limp, his mind shutting down as a defense mechanism against the overload of terror.

Hours later, the awakening is slow and heavy.

The first thing Tim notices is the antiseptic smell and the rhythmic hum of heart monitors. There isn't just one; there are two. And they are beeping in perfect synchrony.

Tim opens his eyes. The light in the Batcave med-bay is dim. His head hurts as if it’s been drilled into, and his body feels exhausted, like he’s run a marathon.

He turns his head to the left quickly. In the next bed over is Damian.

The boy looks small under the white sheets. He is pale, with deep shadows under his eyes, and he has an oxygen mask over his face. He is asleep, likely sedated to counter the residual effects of the toxin.

His mind is quiet, as it always is when he’s in a deep sleep. There’s a soft, medicated, hazy hum. No fear.

Tim lets out a sigh of relief so deep his chest aches. He’s alive. He’s okay.

"Their heart rates synchronized thirty minutes ago."

Bruce’s voice comes from the shadows. Tim tenses, trying to sit up, but the world spins.

"Don't get up," Dick says.

Tim turns his head to the right. Dick is sitting in a chair, still in his Nightwing suit but without the mask. His eyes are red, and his expression oscillates between extreme worry and a wounded confusion. Bruce is standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, cowl down. His gaze is unreadable—which is Bruce’s worst look.

"How is he?" Tim asks, his voice raspy.

"Physically, he will recover. Psychologically, I imagine not very well," Bruce says. "Scarecrow’s toxin is potent, but we administered the antidote in time."

Bruce pauses. The silence stretches.

"You, however," Bruce continues, taking a step forward, "have no trace of toxin in your blood. Not a single particle. Your suit was intact. No leaks."

Tim swallows hard. He looks at his hands on the sheets.

"And yet," Dick intervenes, his voice trembling, "on that rooftop… Tim, you knew what was happening to him. You were screaming for him long before I even realized anything was wrong. You felt his pain."

Dick stands and approaches the bed, looking Tim in the eye. "When we brought you here… Damian was screaming in his delirium. And every time he screamed, your vitals spiked. When we gave him the sedative, you passed out."

Dick takes a breath. "Tim. What is going on?"

Tim looks at Damian. The boy sleeps peacefully. He remembers the terror he felt through the bond. He remembers how Damian thought he was alone, that no one loved him. He remembers giving him Robin to make him feel secure, and how even that wasn't enough to erase his insecurities.

There’s no point in lying anymore. They are cornered by biological evidence. Bruce knows, yet he says nothing—he simply waits for any reaction from Tim, a confirmation of what he already knows.

Tim sighs softly, looking at the rock ceiling of the cave. Finally, he makes eye contact with Bruce. All it takes is a nod and a defeated look.

"What?" Dick asks.

Bruce lets out a sound—something between a sigh and a grunt of understanding. His eyes close for a moment.

"Soulmates."

The word hangs in the air, heavy and absolute.

Dick opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at Damian. Looks at Tim. "You and… Dami?"

"To be clear, technically I was seventeen when I first heard him," Tim explains with a tired, humorless smile. "He had just turned ten. I had to wait seven years in silence."

"Does he know?" Bruce asks. It’s a stupid question considering the circumstances, but Tim remembers the time he asked Bruce for tips on blocking a soulmate out of his head, and it makes more sense. "Does he know?"

"Yes," Tim nods. "We figured it out when he arrived. During the fight in his room."

Dick runs his hands through his hair, pacing in circles. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God. All this time. The fights, the tension… wait." Dick stops and points accusingly at Tim. "The pancake! The salt!"

"Yeah," Tim admits. "We were getting good at hiding it. Until tonight."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Dick asks, and now he sounds hurt. "Tim, we're your family."

"Because he was afraid," Tim says, looking back at Damian’s sleeping form. "He was afraid that if Bruce knew he was 'flawed' or tied to his rival, he’d send him back to the League. And I… I don't know, I guess at first it was to give him some peace. Later, I just didn't want anyone to think I gave him Robin out of some mystical obligation."

Tim looks Bruce directly in the eyes. "I gave it to him because he deserves it, Bruce. Not because he’s my soulmate."

Bruce approaches Tim’s bed. For a moment, Tim thinks he’s going to get a lecture about withholding vital field information.

But Bruce reaches out and, with surprising gentleness, places his hand on Tim’s shoulder. Then, he does the same for Damian, lightly touching the boy’s leg through the sheet.

"He isn't flawed," Bruce says, his voice firm. "And neither are you."

Bruce looks at both of them, taking in the fact that they are connected by something deeper than this family or the mantle of Robin.

"This complicates things tactically. If one goes down, the other is compromised. Today’s incident proves that. You cannot patrol together."

It’s the most Batman response possible. Tim lets out a short laugh that turns into a sob of relief.

"But," Bruce adds, and his expression softens, "it explains the coordination. And it explains why you've been sleeping better lately."

"White noise, I guess," Tim murmurs. "Hearing him think helps. Don't tell him I said that—he’d never stop."

At that moment, Damian stirs in bed. His heart monitor speeds up slightly. Tim feels it instantly: a prickle of confusion followed by the fear of waking up in an unknown place.

"I’m here, Dami," Tim thinks gently before the boy can panic. "You’re in the Cave. You’re safe. Bruce and Dick are here."

Damian stops moving. He opens his eyes slowly—green and unfocused. The first thing he does is search for Tim.

When their eyes meet, Tim feels the silent question. Damian doesn't even think it; they just lock eyes and it’s enough: "Do they know?"

Tim nods slightly.

Damian tenses, looking at his father with dread. Bruce leans over Damian.

"Rest, son," Bruce says. Then, with clear intent, he adds, "Your soulmate is fine. You are both safe."

Damian’s eyes go wide. Then, they fill with tears he refuses to shed. He nods once, rigidly, and closes his eyes again, letting his head fall back into the pillow.

Through the bond, Tim feels a massive wave of relief wash over him—warm and heavy, dragging away the last remains of the toxin’s terror.

He pushes away the pain—the feeling of Damian being considered so "little" to his own soulmate that he felt such fear of being discovered. Tim does what he does best: he compartmentalizes and pushes it all away.

Dick drops into the chair between the two beds, sighing dramatically. "Well. This is going to be an interesting journey."

Tim smiles, closing his eyes.

Years pass, and the change is so gradual it’s almost invisible.

It’s like watching grass grow or the seasons change; you don’t notice the exact moment winter turns into spring—you simply wake up one day and the air feels different.

Tim is twenty-five. Damian has just turned eighteen.

The dynamics at Wayne Manor are quiet. Bruce is "semi-retired" (meaning he only patrols twice a week), Dick is busy with the Titans, and the two of them… they are a flawless operative unit.

It’s Tuesday morning.

Tim shuffles downstairs, hair a mess, driven by an urgent biological need for caffeine that hasn't diminished with age. The smell of freshly brewed coffee already floats through the hallway—rich and dark—guiding him like a cartoon character toward the kitchen.

Damian is already there.

He stands at the marble counter, finishing up the French press. Damian doesn’t like coffee; he says it tastes like "burnt dirt and despair." He’s a tea man—meticulous and a purist.

But every morning, without fail, he makes Tim’s coffee.

It’s a routine he adopted years ago, so integrated into their daily lives that neither of them comments on it. It’s simply a fact: the sun rises in the east, and Damian makes Tim’s coffee.

Tim enters the kitchen, muttering a "good morning" that is more of a grunt than a word. He moves toward the fridge to get the milk.

Damian moves toward the cupboard to get a mug.

They cross paths in the center of the kitchen. They don’t collide. They don’t get in each other's way. It’s a dance rehearsed over a thousand mornings just like this one. Tim slides left; Damian moves right. They brush past each other, shoulder to shoulder, in perfect synchrony.

And there, in that casual brush, Tim stops.

Something has changed. Or perhaps, something has been changing and Tim was too busy looking at spreadsheets to notice. Tim stops with his hand on the refrigerator door and turns around.

Damian’s back is turned, pouring the black liquid into Tim’s favorite mug (the one with the chipped Drake Industries logo).

The black training shirt he’s wearing stretches across his back. Tim blinks. That is a broad back. Very broad. The shoulder muscles are clearly defined under the fabric, tensing as he lifts the carafe.

Damian turns to hand him the mug, and Tim has to do something he hadn't consciously registered: he has to look up.

The boy who used to reach his chest no longer exists. The lanky, awkward teenager who hit a growth spurt is long gone.

In front of him stands a young man who inherited Bruce’s genetics as if out of spite. Damian is tall, solid, built like a siege tank but with his mother’s lethal grace. His jaw is square, his neck is thick, and he occupies a physical space in the kitchen that suddenly feels overwhelming.

Tim just stares.

He notices the line of Damian's throat. He notices the large, calloused hands holding the delicate porcelain mug with absurd care. He notices the day-old stubble darkening his cheek.

It’s… a lot.

Damian stands still, mug extended halfway. His green eyes—sharp and intelligent—scan Tim’s face. He says nothing. He doesn't need to.

The bond between them vibrates. It’s not a word; it’s a sensation. Damian feels Tim’s surprise. He feels the appreciation. He feels the sudden heat rising up Tim’s neck. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk—laden with that Wayne arrogance—curls the corner of Damian’s lips.

"Like what you see?"

The question resonates in Tim’s mind—clear, amused, and in a low tone that sends a shiver down his spine.

Tim could lie. He could use his years of training to throw up a mental wall, roll his eyes, make a sarcastic quip, and take his coffee. He could pretend he didn't just realize that his soulmate is objectively stunning.

But they are in the kitchen. It’s Tuesday. And they’ve shared the same mental space for eight years. Tim can’t help it. His thoughts answer before he can, raw and unfiltered.

"Yes."

The air in the kitchen shifts instantly. The amusement on Damian’s face transforms into something more intense, darker.

Damian sets the coffee mug on the counter with a soft thud, ignoring it completely. He takes a step forward. Just one. He closes the little distance left between them. Tim doesn't back away. He can't. Gravity has shifted its axis, and now Damian is the center of everything.

Damian reaches up and cups Tim’s jaw. His palm is warm, roughened from sword training. His thumb grazes Tim’s cheekbone with a softness that contrasts with his size.

There are no more mental questions. No doubts. Consent has been there, built brick by brick over years of absolute trust.

Damian leans in. Tim rises onto his tiptoes.

It’s the first time they kiss.

It isn't a clash of teeth or a clumsy mistake. It is firm, confident, and devastatingly natural. It tastes like coffee (from the aroma in the air) and like finally.

Tim feels Damian’s emotions flooding through the bond: possession, affection, relief, triumph.

Tim doesn't try to organize his own thoughts. He simply closes his eyes, grips Damian’s shirt to pull him closer, and lets go, vaguely thinking that the coffee can wait.

When they finally pull apart, it isn't for lack of air, but because Tim’s coffee is dangerously close to getting cold (though, to be honest, neither of them cares about the coffee right now).

They stay there in the silence of the kitchen, breathing the same air. Damian’s forehead rests against Tim’s. His hands remain on Tim's waist and neck, refusing to break physical contact now that they’ve crossed that line.

The mental bond is a warm, vibrant hum—a heady mix of satisfaction and a silent question from the younger man: "Why did we wait so long?"

Tim opens his mouth to say something—likely something stupid or unnecessarily analytical about the situation, like the fact that Damian was ten when they met—but then a very distinct sound shatters the bubble.

It’s the sound of someone pretending to gag.

"Ugh. For the love of everything sacred and profane. My eyes."

Tim jumps back, bumping into the counter. His heart, already racing, skips a beat from the fright.

Damian, on the other hand, doesn't even flinch. He simply turns his head slowly toward the door with an expression of homicidal annoyance, though he doesn't let go of Tim’s waist.

Jason Todd is leaning against the doorframe. He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and a worn grey t-shirt. His arms are crossed, and his expression is 50% theatrical disgust and 50% pure amusement.

"You know," Jason says, walking toward the fridge as if he hadn't just interrupted the most important moment of the last decade, "I came in for orange juice, not a floor show."

"Get out, Todd," Damian growls. His voice is deeper than usual.

Jason ignores the threat, opens the fridge, and pulls out the juice carton. He takes a swig directly from the container (knowing it infuriates Alfred) and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, he points the carton at them.

"Seriously, guys. Gross." Jason shakes his head, but there’s a crooked smile on his face. "Though, to be fair… it took you guys a damn eternity."

Tim runs a hand through his hair, trying to reclaim some dignity. He feels his face burning. "We weren't… we didn't…"

"'We weren't,'" Jason mimics in a high-pitched voice. "Tim, please. I can hear you guys thinking from down the hall and I’m not even your soulmate. The sexual tension in this house has been more dangerous than Scarecrow's fear gas for the last two years."

Jason leans against the kitchen island, watching them like they're particularly entertaining zoo animals.

"Dick is going to be insufferable," Jason says, sighing with mock regret. "I bet that Damian would kill you before he kissed you. Or that you’d die of old age waiting for the brat to make the first move."

"You lost your money," Damian says smugly, pulling Tim a bit closer in a clearly possessive gesture.

Jason lets out a short laugh. "Yeah, well. Dick bet on the day Damian turned eighteen. So the 'Golden Boy' takes the jackpot. Stephanie is going to be furious; she bet you’d been doing it in secret for months."

Tim blinks, processing the information. "You have… you have a betting pool on our love life?"

"We have a spreadsheet, Timbo," Jason corrects. "With charts and everything. Babs manages it."

Tim groans and hides his face in his hands. "I hate this family."

"I can handle them," Damian projects into his mind. The mental image accompanying the thought involves Jason, a katana, and a lot of pain.

Tim elbows him gently in the ribs, though he can't help but smile behind his hands. "You are not stabbing your brother."

"I will. I will if he is bothering you."

Jason snaps his digits in front of them. "Hey! No mental whispering in front of the mere mortals. It’s rude."

Jason caps the juice and heads for the exit, but he pauses at the doorframe. He looks at them one last time: at Damian, tall and proud, and at Tim, disheveled and blushing but looking happier than Jason has seen him in years.

Jason’s expression softens by a fraction of a millimeter. "Good for you," he says, and for a second, he sounds genuine. Then, his mocking smirk returns. "But seriously, don't do your sappy stuff in the kitchen."

And with that, he vanishes down the hall, shouting at the top of his lungs:

"DICKIEBIRD! GET YOUR WALLET READY! IT FINALLY HAPPENED!"

Tim sighs, defeated, and looks at Damian. "We are never going to hear the end of this."

Damian shrugs, refocusing all his attention on Tim as if Jason had never existed. "Let them talk. I do not care."

Damian picks up the abandoned coffee mug from the counter and holds it out to Tim again. "Your coffee is getting cold, Tim."

Tim takes the mug. His fingers brush Damian’s, and that electric spark is still there, as strong as ever. "Thanks, baby."

Damian smiles—that small, warm smile that only Tim can see (and feel).

"You're welcome. Now, drink it. We have training in twenty minutes, and I intend to sweep the floor with you."

"In your dreams, baby" Tim thinks, taking a sip.

"We shall see, old man," Damian responds, leaning in to steal a quick, coffee-flavored kiss before triumphantly walking out of the kitchen.

Tim stays behind for a moment, mug in hand, with the echo of Dick and Jason’s shouting from upstairs. He doesn't pout—definitely not. He shakes his head and drinks his coffee.

"I'm only twenty-five!"

Yes, it was definitely worth the wait.