A/N: So in addition to Dick&Damian brofluff, I also have a great love for Tim&Damian brofluff, which is, unfortunately, rather scarce compared to Dick&Damian fluff. The solution? Write more!

This was initially based off of a tumblr post noticing that the jacket Damian wears in Streets of Gotham looks just like a jacket Tim has been shown to wear. (The post is here, for the curious: kyrandis(dot)tumblr(dot)com/post/5947023903/damianandkittens-hayleyfails )

I had a general idea of what I wanted the end to be like, but I wasn't exactly sure on the specifics. Then, a couple days ago, thingsaboutdamian on tumblr made a post inspiring the ending.

Enjoy! :)

Of course Dick would be watching television when there was so much work to be done. Honestly, why was Damian even surprised to see him shirking his duties?

"Grayson," he said irritably, walking to the living room where he heard the television playing, "did you—oh, it's you."

Timothy Drake turned to face him, not looking too pleased, but his annoyed expression was quickly wiped away and replaced by surprise. "Damian—uh—"

Damian had no idea why Tim was looking so baffled, nor did he care. "Where's Grayson?" he asked, glancing idly at the television screen. Mythbusters was playing. Typical Drake.

"In the Cave," answered Tim unsurely, brows furrowing.

"You say that like you don't know," snorted Damian. "Is he there, or isn't he?"

"He is."

"Right, then." A slight nod was the only sign of thanks he would show; then, he turned to leave.

"…Is that my jacket?"

Damian stilled, eyes flicking down automatically to glance at his jacket. It was the one he favored when going out in civilian guise—the black one with yellow stripes running down the sleeves—and it most certainly wasn't Drake's.

"Of course not," he said in response. "It's mine." He started walking, only to be once again interrupted by Tim's voice, causing him to come to another annoyed stop.

"I used to have one that looked just like it," the former Robin explained.

"That's nice to know. Really."

"Can I see—"

"No! What does it even matter?" Damian asked. "It's just a jacket. And if you must know, Grayson gave it to me. Gave it," he repeated for emphasis, "ergo, it's mine."

"Dick gave me mine, too," said Tim calmly, and Damian, feeling thoroughly disgusted by this point, yanked the jacket off, balling it up and throwing it at Tim. It hit his chest and fell open again, Tim catching it as it fell to his lap.

"What's your problem?" Damian asked. "If you want a stupid jacket so badly, then by all means, take it. I don't want it if it was ever yours, anyways." With that, he turned again, finally leaving and this time ignoring his name when it was called.

Damian Wayne—Tim just didn't understand him. Maybe he shouldn't have been so nosy, but it was just a simple question, and could Tim be blamed for being surprised to see Damian—who had a clear aversion to him—wearing his jacket?

For it was indeed his. After Damian had stormed off, presumably to the Batcave, Tim had checked the inside cuff of the sleeve. As he'd suspected, TD was embroidered into it; Tim had put it there himself after Dick had given it to him.

He didn't know how to feel now that he knew Dick had given his jacket away to someone else—to Damian, of all people. And he hadn't even said a word of it to him.

He was being foolish, Tim realized, getting so worked up over an old jacket. Maybe Damian was right for once. He was making a big deal out of nothing.

Not quite sure what to do with the jacket now that it was once again in his possession—it didn't fit him anymore, but Damian had also expressed quite clearly that he no longer wanted it. Sighing, Tim draped it over the armrest of the couch. He'd worry about it later.

Much later, Tim was gazing dully at the TV screen, trying not to nod off despite his tiredness and the fact that it was extremely late, and he really should have been sleeping already.

But Tim would be the last to admit he was running away from nightmares, even if the evidence was right in front of him in the bags under his eyes and his refusal to go to sleep.


Tim's head snapped toward the source of the low curse and he saw a small shadowy figure rapidly backing out of the room.

"Damian?" he called.

The silhouette stopped. "Tch. What do you want?"

"What are you doing down here at—" he glanced at the clock, "—two in the morning?"

"…I was getting a glass of water."

"Oh." Tim blinked. "Kitchen's the other way," he pointed out.

"I realize," Damian snapped. "What are you doing up?"

"Case," Tim replied without thinking, and Damian snorted disbelievingly.

"Yes," he said, "you're working on a case. That must explain why you're watching children's cartoons."

"I'm not watching…" Tim trailed off lamely as he looked back to the television screen. "Go back to bed, Damian."

"Make me."

"Damian," sighed Tim, "unless you have something worthwhile to say, please just leave." The irritation that came from staying up too long without rest was starting to build up, and Tim had very little tolerance for the brat right now.

Damian shifted from foot to foot, then said, "You never told me why you're still up."

"I'm not sleepy," Tim started to say, but it was cut off by a yawn.


Damian didn't say anything else, but he also showed no indication of leaving, and Tim wondered if maybe Damian was having trouble sleeping, too. For once, he felt a surge of sympathy—Damian was still a child, despite everything, and Tim obviously was familiar with the discomfort of being unable to sleep.

And if he realized later that Damian didn't deserve the sympathy, well… Tim would blame his own exhaustion.

"If you're not going back to bed, then do you want to watch a movie with me?" Tim suggested, offering what was probably a weak smile.

Damian didn't move.

"Come here," insisted Tim, beckoning with his hand, and Damian slowly walked to the couch before lowering himself onto it.

He was tense, looking fixedly at the coffee table in front of him rather than the television screen as Tim got up to start up a movie—The Lion King. By the end of the opening, however, he was watching with something that might have been cautious interest.

Damian had yet to relax several minutes into the movie, and Tim sighed.

"I'm going to get something to drink," he announced. "Do you want anything?" What did kids like to drink? "Hot chocolate?"

Damian looked at him blankly. "Tea," he said, and, after a moment, "…Thanks."

"Sure." Tim got up and went to the kitchen to fix two cups of tea.

By the time he returned to the living room, Damian had changed from his stiff upright position to a curled up ball at the end of the couch. Curiously enough, the jacket—which had still been on the armrest from when Tim had put it there earlier—was covering him up like a blanket.

Tim set the teacups down on the coffee table. They made a soft clatter, which was enough to wake Damian again, and he sat up abruptly, throwing the jacket off him.

"Sorry," whispered Tim. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Damian scowled and took one of the cups without a word, becoming suddenly interested in the movie and refusing to meet Tim's gaze.

Figuring it was an improvement that Damian at least wasn't picking a fight, Tim sat back down on the sofa and tried to concentrate on the movie.

More than once, Damian seemed to be falling asleep, only to jerk himself awake moments later. Tim, meanwhile, was fighting off yawn after yawn until there came one he couldn't stop, a huge one that caused his eyes to actually water.

A soft weight landed on his shoulder, and Tim glanced to his side. He was surprised to see Damian there, although it was the natural conclusion—what else could be causing the weight?

Damian was barely conscious, and Tim saw that he had picked up the jacket again, drawing it tightly around his body. Seconds later, his eyelids fluttered shut, hand going slack and the jacket sliding from his shoulders.

A small smile twitched at the corner of Tim's mouth. He didn't think he'd ever seen Damian look so much like—well, a child before.

Gently, he eased Damian's head from his shoulder and onto his lap, pulling the jacket back over him. Damian settled into it with a soft sigh.

How had Tim forgotten that he, too, had once used this very jacket as a sort of security blanket? Had he really been too busy being jealous?

Dick hadn't given it away; he'd passed it on, and, looking at Damian now and seeing him completely at peace for the first time, Tim found that he didn't mind.