timdami week 2025

I. In Which Damian Wayne Declares Total Victory (It hasn't even started yet)

From the outside, Gotham’s rooftops looked like a battlefield.

From the inside of Damian Wayne’s head, they were a battlefield.

After all—

Love was war.

And tonight’s war was unfolding three rooftops north of Crime Alley, where Robin crouched behind a gargoyle, peeking over its stone wing with the intensity of a general observing enemy movements.

The enemy in question:

Red Robin.

Tim Drake.

Smug smirking menace.

Object of annoyance.

Object of affection—

(…irrelevant. Off the record. Classified.)

Damian narrowed his eyes as Tim checked intel on a holographic display, windswept hair catching the moonlight, looking like he’d stepped out of the kind of shoujo manga with dramatic sparkles that Maps had “forced” Damian to read.

The sparkles were real.

Tim was sparkling.

Damian quietly clicked his tongue in irritation.

Pathetic. This was pathetic. He was Robin, heir to the Demon, trained since birth and terrifyingly competent. And yet his heart was performing unnecessary acrobatics because Drake had pushed his hair back with one gloved hand.

“This ends tonight,” Damian muttered.

Operation: Make Drake Confess was now officially active.

He would not lose.

He had shoujo manga knowledge.

He had loyal allies.

He had pride.

II. Damian's Questionable Brain Trust

“Okay,” Maps whispered through Robin’s earpiece. “So for a pretend relationship to turn real, you need tension. Drama. A forced emotional situation. Preferably a near-kiss.”

“That is not necessary,” Damian hissed back.

“Bro,” Colin chimed in, “it’s literally the foundation of the trope.”

From far, far away—Kansas, probably—Jon's amused voice added, “Just remember the goal: get Tim to confess. Don’t accidentally confess first.”

Damian bristled. “As if I would commit such a tactical blunder.”

“You say that,” Billy cut in cheerfully, “but touch-starved people do weird things when their crush picks lint off their jacket.”

“I am not touch-starved,” Damian snapped.

Silence.

Judgmental silence.

Even static seemed unconvinced.

Maps cleared her throat. “Right. Yes. Obviously. Anyway, you have the plan?”

Damian recited stiffly, “Step one: initiate pretend relationship scenario. Step two: prompt Tim into displaying affection. Step three: corner him psychologically until he confesses.”

Maps sighed with pride. “My son. You have truly ascended.”

“I am not your son.”

“You are absolutely my son.”

III. The Pretend Relationship Begins

Damian dropped down beside Tim silently.

Tim didn’t flinch—show-off—but he did smile faintly.

“Tracking the smuggling ring. You good?”

“I am adequate,” Damian said, crossing his arms in a manner he hoped looked both impressive and aloof. “Drake, we must talk.”

“Oh?” Tim raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

Damian inhaled.

Just like the shoujo manga taught.

Confidence. Directness. Assert dominance.

“We are dating now.”

Tim froze.

“…I’m sorry?”

“It is a strategic partnership,” Damian continued coolly, proud of himself for not combusting. “In order to divert attention from certain criminal organizations—”

“Which ones?”

Damian had not gotten that far.

“…all of them.”

Tim stared.

Then—smirked.

“Okay,” Tim said, leaning one hip against the ledge. “So you want us to pretend to be dating as part of a mission.”

“Correct.”

“And this wasn’t secretly orchestrated by Maps and your entire weird friend squad?”

Damian went very still.

“Allegations.”

Tim’s smirk deepened, dangerous. “Sure. Then what does this pretend relationship involve, exactly?”

Damian knew this answer.

He had diagrams.

He had flash cards.

He had researched.

“…holding hands,” he said stiffly.

Tim blinked.

Then, to Damian’s absolute horror, he offered his hand.

“Well? Come on then. If we’re pretending.”

Damian’s brain short-circuited so hard he could hear Jon screaming with excitement through the comm before he muted the channel.

Robin took the offered hand.

Their gloves brushed—

Warmth pressed against his palm—

His heart executed a triple backflip—

And Tim said softly, teasingly,

“Relax, Damian. I don’t bite.”

“You absolutely do,” Damian muttered.

But he didn’t let go.

IV. Love is torture and Tim Drake is a weapon.

The worst part?

Tim adapted immediately.

He started holding Damian’s hand on patrol.

Not for the mission.

Not while cameras were around.

Just… whenever.

On rooftops.

Crossing alleys.

Reviewing intel.

Damian was touch-starved, but pride would drag him into the Lazarus Pit before he admitted it.

In shoujo manga, this was the part where the heroine started kicking her feet under the table.

Damian did not kick his feet.

He merely experienced rage that felt suspiciously like butterflies.

One night, Tim guided him by the waist out of the path of a falling beam, hand lingering.

Damian’s brain shut down.

ABORT MISSION!!!!

Tim’s voice was soft. “You okay?”

Damian, internally dying, goes, “Naturally.”

Tim’s smile was gentle. Too gentle. Sickeningly gentle.

The kind of smile that, according to Maps, meant

he likes you, you dumb adorable gremlin.

But that wasn’t enough.

Damian wouldn’t settle for hints.

He wanted—

No.

He needed—

A confession.

From him.

V. The Trap is Set (mostly because Maps forced him to)

Maps’ plan for the “final blow” was simple:

The Classic Near-Confession Situation.

AKA: rooftop, moonlight, after a life-threatening mission.

So Damian waited until the smuggling ring was taken down, until they were both exhausted and bruised and standing on a building overlooking Gotham.

Tim looked tired.

Beautiful.

But mostly tired.

“Tim,” Damian said, stepping close.

Tim blinked at the sudden use of his first name.

“…Yeah?”

Damian inhaled.

He had prepared speeches.

Pages of them.

Poetic declarations.

Heartfelt lines.

But when Tim looked at him like that—soft, patient, fond—Damian felt something in his chest unravel.

“I believe,” Damian began stiffly, “that this fake relationship has become—”

“Real?” Tim supplied gently.

Damian froze.

“…What.”

Tim’s smile was small, warm, devastating.

“I mean—if you want it to be.”

It felt like the world paused.

Like every shoujo manga panel he’d ever studied had collapsed into this exact moment.

Damian’s pride screamed at him not to confess.

But Tim had offered first.

He had lost.

And yet—

Damian stepped closer, chin raised.

“We may consider… negotiations.”

Tim laughed, head tilting. “Damian. I like you. You don’t have to negotiate.”

Damian looked away sharply, ears red.

“…Tt. Very well. I accept.”

Tim squeezed his hand.

“Good.”

The wind tugged at their capes.

Gotham sprawled below them.

Damian allowed himself—just this once—to lean into Tim’s shoulder.

For strategic warmth, obviously.

And mission efficiency.

And definitely not because the contact made his heart somersault.

VI. Victory, technically speaking

Back on comms:

Maps: “HE DID IT!!”

Colin: “MY BOY GREW UP.”

Jon: “I TOLD YOU NOT TO CONFESS FIRST—wait, did he?”

Billy: “Doesn’t matter! TRUE LOVE!!”

Damian turned the comms off.

Tim laughed.

“You have a very loud fan club.”

“They are idiots,” Damian muttered.

Tim nudged him with his shoulder.

“You love them.”

“Not as much as I love—” Damian stopped, horrified.

Tim grinned like he’d won a war.

Damian scowled.

“This does not count as a confession.”

“Oh, it definitely does.”

“It does not,” Damian insisted.

Tim leaned closer, voice a whisper.

“Then you’ll have to say it properly next time.”

Damian’s heart nearly leapt off the building.

War, he thought grimly, was far from over.

But perhaps—

Tim collapses onto the nearest surface with a groan.

It is, unfortunately, the only bed.

Of course.

Damian glares at him, golden-green eyes glowing like a cat’s in the low light. “You should have waited for me,” he snaps, tossing his sword onto the concrete floor. “Charging at three turned vampires alone—have you lost all self-preservation?”

Tim rolls onto his back, wincing. “One of us has to take risks,” he mutters. “The other can take bullets to the chest without blinking.”

Damian stalks closer. “That is not the point.”

“It’s kind of the point.”

“Timothy.” Damian’s voice drops, all gravel and warning. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Tim tries to sit up. Damian pushes him back down with one hand, infuriatingly gentle and infuriatingly strong.

“Stay,” Damian says.

“I’m not a dog.”

“You are an injured fool who refuses to acknowledge reality.” Damian leans over him, examining the wound. His expression tightens. “This needs stitching.”

Tim tries to wave him off. “I can do it.”

Damian’s jaw flexes. “Your hands are shaking.”

“I can still do it.”

Damian grabs Tim’s wrist—cool fingers, inhumanly steady, undeniably soft. “Let me.”

Tim opens his mouth to argue. Stops. His breath catches. Damian notices. Damian always notices.

He looks away. “Fine. But don’t do the thing where you—y’know—hover.”

Damian absolutely does exactly that. Hovering. It's not like Tim can stop the worry, anyway. It's not like Tim can stop anything at his current state.

He cleans the wound, stitches it, and ties off the thread with absurd precision. Tim tries not to make noises. He fails. Damian pretends not to smirk.

When it’s over, Tim slumps back onto the mattress. “Thanks.”

Damian stands there stiffly, like gratitude physically pains him. “You are welcome,” he says, each syllable begrudging.

The room is cold. The generator rattles. The night outside is full of former Bat-family hunting for them.

Tim shivers.

Damian picks up on it instantly. “The bed is heated. The rest of the room is not.” His expression goes carefully blank—his version of nervous. “We will… share.”

Tim’s brain short-circuits. “Share?”

Damian folds his arms. “Do not be obtuse. You are bleeding, concussed, and incapable of regulating your body temperature at the moment. If you wish to live until dawn, you will not argue.”

“I just wasn’t expecting—”

“We have shared worse conditions.”

“Not when one of us is—”

“A vampire?” Damian lifts a brow. “I am well aware of what I am, Drake.”

Tim swallows. “I just mean… isn’t it dangerous? For you?”

Damian stills.

Ah.

Right. Tim doesn’t say it, but he means: Isn’t my heartbeat torture? Doesn’t my blood make you want to tear my throat out? Aren’t I a walking temptation?

Damian speaks quietly. “I am in control.”

Tim nods, a little too quickly. “Of course you are. I know that. Sorry.”

Damian hesitates only a second before climbing into the bed beside him, lifting the blanket. He keeps his body rigid at first, like he’s afraid any movement will give Tim the wrong idea.

Tim is cold.

Damian notices.

With a resigned sigh, he shifts closer, an arm sliding behind Tim’s back. Tim feels the coolness of Damian’s body gradually turning warm—Damian’s learned to mimic human temperature when he concentrates, a small miracle of willpower.

Tim rests his head against Damian’s shoulder. “Still abrasive,” he murmurs.

Damian lets out a soft huff. “Still reckless.”

“Still alive,” Tim counters.

Damian goes perfectly still. His voice is a whisper against Tim’s hair. “Only because I reached you in time.”

Tim tilts his head up. “You always do.”

Something flickers across Damian’s face—fear? Relief? Something more dangerous?

He shifts, pulling Tim closer, like it’s instinct. “You are infuriating,” he says quietly. “You argue with me at every turn. You push yourself to idiotic extremes. You refuse to accept help. You do not sleep unless I force you. You—”

Tim nudges him. “Damian.”

Damian’s voice softens, almost breaking. “—and still, I cannot lose you.”

Tim’s breath stutters. “You won’t.”

Damian’s gaze drops to Tim’s lips and jerks away immediately, as if ashamed of the impulse. “Rest.”

“You rest,” Tim counters, even though he’s clearly the one about to pass out.

“I do not sleep.”

“You rest,” Tim repeats, poking him in the chest. “Or I’ll annoy you for the next six hours.”

Damian exhales a laugh—small, rare, real. “Impossible creature.”

But he relaxes. Just a little. Enough that Tim feels the tension bleed out of him, enough that Tim can imagine a version of the world where they don’t have to fight monsters every night.

Tim shifts closer, seeking warmth. Or safety. Or Damian. Hard to tell.

Damian lowers his chin until it rests lightly atop Tim’s head.

They lie there in the dark, the world outside howling for blood.

Tim closes his eyes.

Damian listens to his heartbeat—steady, alive, human—and thinks it’s the most beautiful sound left in this broken world.

When Tim whispers, “You’ll stay, right?”

Damian answers without hesitation.

Tim wakes up to the sun hitting his face in a way that feels wrong.

Mostly because his face seems… smaller?

And also because when he tries to stretch, something springs out of his spine like a whip.

A tail.

He freezes. Blinks.

His vision adjusts in rapid feline-focus. His ears swivel. His whiskers twitch.

Oh no, he tries to say, but what comes out is a single annoyed: “Mrrrp.”

Across the room, there is a large Rottweiler staring at him. Wide-eyed. Horrified. Sitting upright like a soldier.

Titus? Tim thinks.

The dog—Titus—lets out a rumbling whine. Then steps backward and bumps into the dresser.

And then, suddenly—

The dog speaks.

Or rather: the dog barks, but the bark carries an unmistakable Damian Wayne energy.

Timothy? it sounds like an indignant growl. Are you Alfred the Cat?

Tim—Alfred—collapses onto his side in pure despair.

-

Downstairs, Alfred-the-human (the cat in Tim’s body) is sprawled comfortably across the kitchen table, asleep on top of three case files.

Bruce walks in, sees Tim Drake unconscious on top of paperwork, nods like this is correct and normal (which, to be fair to the long-suffering father of six plus some, is.)

“Leave him be,” Bruce murmurs, “He must’ve been up all night.”

Dick peeks in. “He’s sleeping on top of the printer, actually. Like… on it.”

“Better ergonomics than usual.”

Across the room, Damian’s body stands perfectly straight at parade rest, chin lifted, eyes sweeping the room with silent judgment — which is, unfortunately, normal.

Dick waves. “Morning, Dames!”

Damian’s body (Titus) just… stares.

Dick squints. “…Huh.”

Jason walks in. “Stop worrying. Damian’s always weird in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Dick sighs. “Fair.”

-

Tim (in Alfred) runs into the living room, leaps onto the couch, and begins typing—scratch that—pawing frantically at the remote, trying to open the Bat-signal app.

The remote launches into the air and smacks Jason in the head.

Jason glares. “Cat. Why.”

Tim tries to mime writing.

Jason picks him up like a loaf of bread. “Ugh. Fine. You want food? Water? A nap?” He sets Tim gently onto a soft blanket.

Tim screams silently for the next ten minutes.

Across the manor, Damian (in Titus) takes a different approach: morse code scratching.

He claws at the wall with careful precision.

Dick walks by. “Aw, Titus is making art!”

Dot-dot-dash-scratch-scratch / HELP ME IM DAMIAN WAYNE

Dick takes a photo. “Bruce, look! He’s doing enriched-environment tasks!”

“Good boy.”

Damian slams his giant dog head against the wall.

-

Tim eventually finds Damian-in-Titus waiting at the kitchen door.

Damian barks, We require cooperation, Timothy.

Tim meows back, offended. We’re improvising.

They stare meaningfully at each other.

Damian nudges Tim gently, positioning him on his giant dog back. Tim curls around Damian’s broad shoulders.

It is, technically, the most intimate physical contact they’ve ever had.

They break out the dog door together.

It is majestic.

It is tragic.

It is slightly uncoordinated.

-

The plan, of course, is to find Zatanna. Because if anyone could reverse whatever magical nonsense caused this, it’s her.

Except getting across Gotham as a cat and dog is not subtle.

Tim keeps trying to signal pedestrians by tapping out letters on their phones. This only gets him filmed for TikTok.

Damian drags him away by the scruff. Stop embarrassing yourself, Drake.

Tim “mrrrps!” in outrage. You’re the one who can’t stop knocking over trash cans!

Damian bristles. I am not used to balancing on four legs!

You could’ve fooled me. You’re running like a show dog.

Damian, for some reason, becomes very flustered. …Thank you.

-

At a rest stop, Damian curls protectively around Tim to keep the wind off him.

You’re shivering, he says (in dog-growl).

Tim flicks an ear. I’m fine.

You’re small.

I’m a cat currently, Tim hisses.

And still small.

Tim paws at Damian’s face.

Damian gently bumps his (snout? muzzle?) against Tim’s forehead.

The city glows around them.

Damian murmurs, When we return to our bodies, I would prefer we… revisit this.

Tim’s heart stops.

Revisit what?

Damian tries to look dignified even in dog form.

This. You and I. Speaking without hostility.

Tim’s tail flicks uncontrollably.

That sounds suspiciously like flirting.

Damian huffs. You are impossible.

Am not.

Are so.

Tim curls against him again. ...I like you too, you know.

Damian freezes.

Then very gently lays his head over Tim like a protective blanket.

-

They eventually find Zatanna performing a benefit show.

Damian skids onto the stage mid-routine; Tim claws up the curtains like a scrambling demon.

Zatanna stops her act.

Looks at the dignified dog.

Looks at the furious cat.

Looks at the utter desperation in their eyes.

She nods.

“Okay, who did you two piss off this time?”

One backwards incantation later—

pop!

Human bodies. Human voices.

Tim drops from midair into Damian’s arms.

Damian catches him like it’s instinct.

The audience applauds, assuming it’s part of the show.

-

Back on the rest stop, Damian stands stiffly.

Tim fidgets with his hoodie.

“So,” Tim says, “we revisiting this?”

Damian steps closer. “Timothy. When I said I preferred our more cordial interactions earlier—”

“You mean when you were a dog and warm and cuddly and—”

Damian clears his throat violently. “—I intended to express that I… care for you.”

Tim blinks.

Then smiles, soft and slow.

“I care for you too.”

They lean closer.

Damian whispers, “This is absurd.”

Tim whispers, “We literally shared body heat as animals. I think a kiss is the least weird thing tonight.”

Damian huffs a laugh.

And kisses him.

It’s clumsy and warm and perfect.

-

Tim and Damian enter the manor hand-in-hand.

Alfred-the-cat (now back to cat form) naps on a pillow.

Titus licks Jason’s face once then sits like a perfect angel again.

Dick looks between Tim and Damian’s linked hands.

“Wait,” he says slowly. “Something happened.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Detective work?”

“No. Their faces. They look all…” He squints. “…smitten.”

Jason chokes on his coffee. “No way. You two?”

Damian narrows his eyes. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Tim blushes a violent red.

Dick cheers.

Bruce nods approvingly.

-

Dick is showing Jason the security camera footage of Tim and Damian’s very suspicious return.

Jason’s eating cereal straight out of the box.

Dick’s rambling: “—and look, look, Tim’s FLUSTERED, and Damian’s ears were RED—”

Jason scoffs. “You’re obsessed.”

“I’m right,” Dick says proudly.

Out in the hallway, Haley (Dick’s dog) trots by with her jaunty bow. Dog (Jason’s dog whose name is literally Dog) trots behind her chewing something suspicious-looking.

Dick leans down. “Hey, Haley! Who’s a perfect girl? And Dog… who’s… vaguely trying.”

Jason says, reproachfully, “he’s doing his best.”

Dog crunches something.

“…mostly.”

Suddenly, there’s a sparkle.

A shimmer.

A breeze from absolutely no open windows.

Dick straightens. “You feel that?”

Jason frowns. “My hair moved. Inside my helmet. Is this a ghost thing or a magic thing?”

Before Dick can answer—

-

Tim and Damian are sitting on the manor couch.

Very cozy. Very close. Hands definitely touching (amongst other things.)

They both freeze at the sound of frantic barking from downstairs.

Tim sighs without looking up.

“…It better not be happening again.”

Damian groans into his hands.