Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim walked through the halls of Nanda Parbat. 

It had been three years since his first day at the facility.

Three damn years.

Tim sighed internally, he really shouldn’t have learned chess.

But how was he supposed to know the head of a league of assassins play chess at chess-fucking-dot com?

And it wasn’t his fault damn algorism thought it would be fun if it put a seven year old against that head of a league of assassins. 

Well, he did think the guy was a little too good, but he thought he was just getting sloppy, not that the opponent was a thousand year old guy that played chess since its invention!

He thinks back about the first time he had an encounter with Ra’s al Ghul. 

He remembers watching Batman and Robin intently on a rooftop. Robin had done an extra impressive flip and Tim had been proud that he had clicked the button of his camera at the just right second. 

He remembers internally slapping himself, reminding himself that this was Dick Grayson he was talking -or thinking? -about. The picture would have been good even if he had taken it any other moment. But still, good picture.

He was pondering whether or not  to move a bit closer when all the hairs in his body stood on end.

He turned his head slowly and his eyes met piercing green ones.

He doesn’t really remember the rest of the night. If that was because of drugs (likely) or trauma (also highly likely) he wasn’t really sure but whatever that happened on the roof that night had impressed Ra’s and he had been taken to Nanda Parbat. (Why did his life have to be so difficult? He just wanted to take pictures of Robin. UGH)

Tim’s footsteps ceded as he stopped in front of large doors. This wasn’t the first time Ra’s had specifically asked for him and it most certainly would not be the last but he did wonder what it was this time as the doors slid open.

The sight that greeted him was unexpected, to say the least.

Not that the surprise really showed on his face. It was his third year of assassin training! He knew better than that. (Also 7 years of Janet Drake training which also included masking intentions and expressions)

Anyways, there was a kid. Like a kid, kid. A literal 3 year old looking kid. (Or were 3 year olds babies? Tim’s not so sure) 

“Timothy,” Ra’s greeted.

“Ra’s,” he acknowledged, bowing his head slightly.

He didn’t know why but he had been allowed the ‘privilege’ of calling Ra’s by his name. (That one was granted three months after his kidnapping)

He also had the privilege of speaking…. sorta. He didn’t want either but oh well, that’s just how things work in the Tim world.

His eyes flickered back to the kid. He then realized that the kid looked eerily like Talia. And.. Batman. THE Batman. 

The gears in his head started whirring. That kid, he was definitely old enough to be Talia’s kid. Maybe.

Does that mean Batman had sex with Talia?

He shoves that thought away. Probably biologist stuff. Cause there is no way Batman slept with Talia, right?

He really doesn’t want to think about this. He turns his focus back to Ra’s who was, as always, talking.

He knows that it’s ‘disrespectful’ for one to not pay attention to the Demon Head, but it really wasn’t his fault Ra’s was boring right? He really should pay attention when the man speaking holds his life. 

“...so from now on you will be mentoring the Demon heir,” Ra’s finished.

…

Wait WHAT

Chapter Text

Sooooo time passed and Tim found out that the two year old kid was a pain in the gut.

But, nevertheless, he couldn’t help getting attached. 

That was probably why Ra’s introduced him to the kid in the first place. To make him attached.

Asshole.

Now, his time was split between training and babysitting.

His life was a comedy. 

 Fuck it all.

The kid, Damian, was now 3 years old. Time flies.

(Actually it doesn’t. It feels like he’s been there for at least 10 years. But let’s pretend it isn’t like that)

Damian had grown in size but also had acquired a temper. And arrogance fit for his name. 

Damian al Ghul.

Demon Prince.

Oh, and he had an ego bigger than Nanda Parbat.

Why did he have to?

He corrected Tim’s sword grip with the seriousness of a veteran assassin (his grip was FINE thank you very much. Damian didn’t even start training yet. What did HE know about sword fighting? Everything supposedly.) and demanded bedtime stories with the same authority.
And god forbid Tim skipped a page. Damian would quote the damn book from memory. (Why did he even want to hear it then???)

He had opinions. On everything. Tim’s posture, the League’s tactics, the temperature of his tea. Once, he made a miniature battle plan out of crackers and tried to explain to Tim how “The latest assassin crew’s tactics were flawed(shit-well, that’s what Tim figured what Damian was trying to say)”
And he followed Tim everywhere. Like a shadow with too many opinions and a sharp glare(that a kid shouldn’t have..shouldn’t need to have anyway)
One time, Tim tried to sneak out of his room at 3 a.m. to get a breath of air, and Damian was already there, sitting cross-legged by the door like some tiny, angry gargoyle. (He was three, why was he even awake?!)

“You were gone for seven minutes,” he’d said.
“You were asleep,” Tim had groaned.
“It is obvious that I’m able to sense movement even in my sleep,” Damian replied, like that was a normal thing to say. (Tim thinks that it might be seeing he was born and raised in the League but-)

It was exhausting. Maddening. Soul-crushing.

But then there’d be those rare, quiet moments—after a long day, after a training match, when Damian curled up beside him without a word. When he looked at Tim not like a mentor or a soldier, but like someone he trusted.

And Tim would forget, for a second, how batshit his life had become.

Only for Damian to bite him the next morning during breakfast.

Balance, or something.

“Hey, Tim!” 

A friendly voice. 

“I’m back! I didn’t die on this mission, swore I thought I was gonna though.”

A friendly laugh. 

…

“Kill him,” Ra’s said.

Tim’s hands were shaking. So was the dagger in his hand pointed toward the one person who had a bright flair of energy in Nanda Parbat. 

“There is no use of an assassin, no matter how skilled, if they cannot kill,” Ra’s said in a steely voice, “kill him and prove your use.”

“I-I..” Tim opened his mouth but no words formed. 

His mind screamed, ‘I can’t’

“He is a traitor,” Ra’s said, “No need to feel sympathy. He would have killed you given the chance.”

 Tim breathed in, and out. 

He’d expected this situation to dawn upon him, this moment or another. 

But no amount of training would have prepared him for this.

His eyes met the other’s. 

Met with hope- that he might live. That Tim might let him live.

Tim let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

‘This is a test,’ Tim thought, ‘test of my loyalty.’

‘If I don’t, Ra’s would kill him anyway’

Tim closed his eyes, ‘but if I do it, at least it’ll be quick.’

Tim’s heart twisted. His free hand clenched at his side.
He opened his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim whispered, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

And then he moved, quick and precise. Fatal.
The blade slid in, a clean cut, mercifully fast.
Tim let out a strangled sound, half sob, half scream, but he didn’t drop the dagger.
He held it tight, knuckles white, as if letting go would make him fall apart.
Blood pooled at his feet.
His first kill.
No going back now. Not ever.

Ra’s smiled thinly. “Very good.”

Tim didn’t hear him.
He was staring at the man’s lifeless face. He saw the life leaving this man’s body.
‘ I did this.’

He wanted to throw up.