Tim is finding it hard to sleep in the barren guest room that would one day become his bedroom at the Manor. He's wishing that Bruce hadn't banned them from the Cave. Patrol might take his mind off the time continuum, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and his philosophy paper.

His philosophy professor would be having a conniption over all the rules of time travel that the Bat clan has collectively broken over the years.

Tim considers getting up and working on his paper until Batman and Robin get in. Most of the philosophy texts should still be located in the Library where he found them in his own time . . . and maybe he'll feel better once Bruce and Jason are safe in the Manor instead of trying to track down Talia al Ghul.

It's kind of hard to hide Damian's Wayne-ness even with the younger boy's cooperation-especially from the all-seeing eyes of Alfred.

Before Tim makes up his mind, there is a sharp rap at the door. Damian doesn't wait for invitation or even acknowledgement before admitting himself. The eleven year old stalks across the room and throws himself on Tim's bed with a warning growl.

Tim wisely rolls over and surrenders the covers.

Damian doesn't speak until he's fully cocooned in his blanket nest with the stolen pillows, and it takes him a few minutes even then: "I want to go home."

Tim hums an agreement, and tucks his bare feet under the stray corner left to him.

"I want to go home. This place sucks. Grayson sucks."

Tim automatically opens his mouth to defend their sainted older brother, but closes it when he considers the way dinner had gone earlier. Dick Grayson, age eighteen, had a few things to work out . . . like his temper and flair for drama.

"He kind of does," Tim agrees.

There are a few things that Tim is pretty sure he doesn't deserve—things that he doesn't think even Damian deserves—and eating dinner across from a teenage Dick and twelve year old Jason is one of them. It had gone . . . spectacularly south what with the yelling (Dick and Bruce), kicking (Jason), and flinging of foodstuffs.

Although Damian gets major points for throwing mashed potatoes instead of his steak knife. Tim might let him hack into some of Red Robin's mostly-confidential files as a reward, or install an AI on Damian's new bike when they get home. Maybe even call in and excuse Damian from school for a day if the good behaviour continues.

. . . The look on Bruce's face . . .

Tim pats the bundle of blankets absently, withdrawing his hand quickly to avoid losing it. "He had a few years of being really stubborn, until he got his head out of his ass," Tim explains, "and it did suck. A lot."

Tim remembers trying to convince Nightwing to return after Jason's death, and how the older man's stubbornness led to Tim becoming Robin. Even with Dick's approval, it hadn't been easy to win over Batman. They argued about him a lot. Tim used to think that it was his fault, but he knows better now.

"All he does is argue with Father," Damian continues, as if reading Tim's thoughts. "And that little troll is unworthy of Robin."

Tim swats the estimated-location of Damian's rear on principle, but it's unlikely the kid even feels it through the cushioning.

Damian only gives an aggrieved "Tt" at least.

"You don't get to judge Robins-past, present, or future," Tim informed the little demon primly. "It's not about skill or the persona. It's about . . . being the best Robin you can be." He prods Damian deftly without losing a limb, a tribute to his skill and reflexes. "Jason was—is a good Robin."

"He bites."

And Tim must have missed that incident, which he's kind of sorry for, but not surprised by. He just snorts, countering with: "So do you."

Damian purrs in a self-satisfied way that never fails to amuse Tim. He thinks Talia must have watched Dark Angel while plotting on bringing Damian into the world, but no one in his family would appreciate the geeky reference even if he was in the right era to mention it. Maybe he can point out Damian's cat-like tendencies to Bart when they get back. Maybe after building up some good will so that fingers don't end up pointing at Tim when catnip starts appearing in Titans Tower.

"Your tenacity in going for the jugular is both appalling and inspiring," Tim decides on as an acceptable offering of goodwill.

"Your precision with a liquid projectile is impressive," Damian returns, because they're on the same side for now. Until they find a way home, they're an unlikely team-up with unlikely enemies, and Damian knows the value of politics even if he rarely employs them. "I underestimated your resourcefulness."

"Lemonade stings when it comes into contact with eyes, nasal passages, or open sores," Tim explains modestly. "It's fortuitous that Jason drank nothing else as a child."

He wasn't sorry. Dick's barb about real sons had stung Tim as much as it had Damian if for different reasons. Tim's tried hard to earn his place in the Bat family, and his status as son and heir has been questioned at every other turn; it hurts to hear Dick of all people say something so thoughtless. And Damian . . . everyone knows that while the boy may be Bruce's son, Dick raised Damian.

It had been a truly glorious food-fight. Legendary even and the pair from the future had the advantage of a teamwork-dynamic that Dick and Jason had thus far left unexplored. If Bruce hadn't returned from the washroom, Tim and Damian could have easily claimed victory.

Judging by the suspicious gleam in Damian's eyes as he peers out from his nest, the little demon is also recalling the trauma inflicted on much more innocent versions of their brothers.

The battle is going to be repeated when they get home. Victory will be theirs. Dick and Jason would never see it coming.

"Todd called me names," and Tim groans, because if Damian is going to list every offense proffered by the other boy, Tim is going to have to smother him. "He's immature, clumsy . . . and he's going to die in two years exactly."

Tim twists to look at the clock.

12:42 a.m. April 30th in their world; he hasn't got a look at the calendar in this one yet.

Tim swallows, because he's watched Jason pick fights with Damian all day, but he's also watched the way Jason looks to Bruce for approval, and the way Jason jumps and flips down the last three stairs every time he uses them. Jason needs to dye his hair again, and his aim is terrible because he's a twelve year old boy and the newest Robin.

"Yeah, he is." There's a whole list, and Tim wants to throw all the rules about time-travel out the window. "My parents. Kon. Bart. Steph."

"Brown won't die," Damian mutters.

It might be a compliment or a threat, but it's a sore spot all the same, and Tim shoots back with: "Not for lack of trying on the Black Mask's part." He grimaces. "You of all people should know that you don't have to die to get messed up."

"Sometimes you just have to be born," Damian agrees, hollowly. He sits up, blankets sliding into a muddle around his waist and his hair sticking up in every direction. "Do you think Father will find Mother and I in this time?"

Bruce was certainly looking. One doesn't have to be the World's Greatest Detective to profile Damian, no matter what Tim tried to shield.

"I don't know. If he does . . . that would make this a parallel world. Things will change. Maybe none of the bad stuff will happen. Maybe none of the good stuff will. We don't really get a say."

Damian makes a face and throws himself back down amongst the bed linens. "I liked your lectures better when you were studying existential philosophy instead of moral philosophy."

Tim agrees. After listening to another long-winded spiel on the morality of fate and sacredness of the timeline courtesy of the expectorating professor, Tim would like nothing more than to suit up and pound on a few villains. Maybe get with the life-saving if an opportunity arises.

Tim really wants to patrol.

"It's late. We should get some sleep."

"Tt, obviously."

Damian begrudgingly hands over a single pillow, and Tim curls up on his side of the bed to watch the clock. Damian squirms, rolls over into the approved corpse-like pose in which he normally sleeps, closes his eyes and still ends up flinging his arms out wide.

"I can't sleep," the former-assassin declares. "This is all your fault, Drake."

"My fault? Who decided that the spinning vortex of glitter wasn't a serious threat?"

"Not that," Damian waves a hand dismissively. "I want to pound something, and it's all your fault for bringing up moral philosophical discussions. I don't care about the timestream. I just want to break Black Mask in half. Maybe the Joker too . . . we should spar, Drake."

Tim rolls onto his back with a groan and considers how archaic the technology guarding the Cave must be. He thinks about Dick's return to Bludhaven, and Bruce's little out-of-city mission.

"I've got something better," he decides. "Let's patrol."

Damian's eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. "Father wouldn't like that."

Tim shrugs.

"We don't have our costumes, and they would confuse the Gothamites of this time period if we did."

Tim lets a smirk slowly spill across his face. "I can think of a couple superheroes our age that are bound to have spares in the Cave."

"I refuse. Have you seen what they wore?! Willingly?!"

The Discowing suit . . . scaly underpants . . . a collared cape . . .

"Try not to think about the fashion faux pas, and imagine how ticked they'll be, the damage we can cause, and the villains we can pound," Tim argues carefully as he scoops the entire ball of blankets and boy off the bed. Damian's own nest works against him, and he'll later argue that is the only reason Damian is going along with Tim's idea.

No matter how fun trolling Gotham sounds.