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Damian Wayne was not planning to hit Tim Drake with a car.
He was, however, thinking about it.
Hypothetically.
Conceptually
In the way one considers, say, arson, or adopting a wolf, or becoming Batman at age ten.
It was an intrusive thought. A romantic one.
He texted the group chat.
[Damian]: Is it bad that i kind of want to hit my crush with a car and nurse him back to health like a baby bird?
[Damian]: Is that normal? :)
There was a full thirty seconds of silence.
Then:
[Maps]: EXCUSE ME???
[Jon]: buddy
[Maya]: absolutely not
[Billy]: what. 😃
[Jon]: no that’s not normal
[Maps]: that’s actually the OPPOSITE of normal
[Colin]: you’re insane
Damian frowned at his phone. He was sitting on the manor steps, sword across his knees, Gotham smog curling lazily in the distance. Tim Drake (his, even if the label was as of yet, unofficial) was currently inside, arguing with Alfred about eating real food instead of protein bars.
Damian typed back.
[Damian]: I would not hit him hard.
[Damian]: I would also be very attentive during recovery.
[Damian]: I am quite good at care.
That was when Jon called him.
“Damian,” Jon said, voice tight in that way it got when he was trying to be gentle but failing. “Where are you?”
Damian frowns. “Gotham.”
“We’re coming to Gotham.”
Damian blinked. “That is unnecessary.”
“Too late,” Maya said in the background. “We’re already rerouting.”
“Jon,” Damian said. “You are in Metropolis.”
“Yeah,” Jon replied. “And you just texted that you want to commit vehicular manslaughter as a meet-cute.”
“It would not be manslaughter,” Damian snapped. “He would survive.”
Billy laughed so hard someone took the phone away from him.
-
The intervention happened in the Batcave.
This was not ideal.
Colin and Maps were already there, of course—Colin leaning against a console, Maps spinning happily in a chair she was absolutely not supposed to be touching. Jon arrived pointedly not looking at the giant dinosaur, even though everyone currently in the cave knows he wants to. Maya and Billy showed up last, arguing about airport snacks.
Damian stood in the center, arms crossed, like this whole thing was something that inconveniences him. “This is a waste of time,” he said.
Jon pulled out a chair and sat backward on it. “Damian. We love you.”
Maps nodded enthusiastically. “So much.”
“And because we love you,” Maya continued, “we’re a little concerned about your… approach to romance.”
Damian bristled. “My approach is fine.”
“You want to hit him with a car,” Billy said.
“Metaphorically,” Damian said. Pauses. Adds, “…Potentially.”
Colin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is this about Tim Drake?”
Damian did not answer. Which was, in itself, an answer.
Maps leaned forward. “Okay, but like. Why?”
Damian hesitated. He hated this part. The explaining things part.
“He does not rest,” Damian said finally. “He does not eat enough. He is always hurt, or tired, or bleeding somewhere stupid. If he were injured in a controlled manner—”
Jon choked. “Controlled manner—!?”
“—then he would be forced to stop,” Damian continued. “And I could ensure his recovery.”
The room stared at him.
“…That’s the most unhinged caregiving fantasy I’ve ever heard,” Maya said, impressed despite herself.
Colin sighed. “You could just. Ask him on a date?”
Damian recoiled like he’d been slapped. “That is worse.”
“it’s really not,” Maps said gently.
Before Damian could retort, a familiar voice echoed from the cave entrance.
“Hey, uh,” Tim Drake said. “Alfred said there were… guests?”
Every single person turned.
Tim stood there in a hoodie three sizes too big, energy drink in hand, dark circles like permanent fixtures. He looked, in Damian’s professional opinion, deeply hit-with-a-car-able.
Jon winced. “Oh no.”
Tim looked nervously between them. “Why does this feel like it’s about me?”
Maps grinned. “Because it is!”
“Maps,” Colin hissed.
Damian’s ears burned. “Tt. This is a misunderstanding.”
Tim tilted his head. “...yeah?”
Maya sighed. “So, Tim. Hypothetically. If someone had a crush on you and expressed it by wanting to hit you with a car and incapacitate you for your own good—”
“I’m sorry.” Tim choked on his drink. “What.”
Damian snapped. “I did not say incapacitate!”
Tim stared at him. Slowly, something like fond exasperation crept across his face. “You want to… hit me with a car.”
“When you say it like that—”
“I am saying it like that.”
There was a long pause.
Then Tim laughed. Not politely. Really laughed, bending forward a little, one hand on his belly, the other rubbing at his eyes.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh my god. Damian.”
“This is not funny,” Damian said weakly.
“It kind of is,” Tim said. “In a very ‘you’re twelve kinds of messed up’ way.”
“I am not messed up,” Damian protested.
Tim sobered, stepped closer. “You know you can just… take care of me without the car part, right.”
Damian looked up at him. “…I can?”
“Yeah,” Tim said softly. “You could ask.”
Damian considered this. The room held its breath.
“…Would you like to rest,” Damian said stiffly. “And eat. With me.”
Tim smiled. Small. Warm. “Yeah. I would.”
Colin muttered, “Thank god.”
Damian allowed himself a tiny, victorious smirk.
No cars were harmed in the making of this romance.
(Yet.)