yorulun asked: Prompt 1. "When it happens enough you learn to pick up on it." Between Damian and Tim. Surprise me with this one. Be wild.

"Breathe," Tim commands, his hands tightening on Damian's shoulders. He hopes his face is as blank as he thinks it is, because if not, Damian isn't going to calm down, to breathe, and Tim honestly doesn't need that on his conscious right now. Especially right now. "Come on, Damian, breathe."

Damian—for once in his damn life—actually obeys Tim. He sucks in a shuddering gasp, his shoulders shaking with the force of his silent sobs. He's crying.

And why shouldn't he be, that voice in the back of his head snarls. And it's true. With everything that had happened over the past year, between Damian dying, and then Dick dying, and Damian coming back to life to find that his favorite person—of that Tim had no doubt about—was six feet under the ground. Tim would be more worried if Damian wasn't upset.

But he is. And despite his better judgement, Tim gently tugs Damian into a light hug on the floor of the Cave, right in front of the case that holds the Nightwing suit up in a memorial for Dick. The case that, even after the past few weeks, Tim still can't wrap his head around.

Damian's only been back a few days. And Dick was his Batman. Damian is hurting, and Tim can't help it when he squeezes Damian tightly and lets the kid burying his head in Tim's shoulder. All he can think of right now is, what would Dick do if he were here, and that's what he does. He comforts Damian.

"He's gone," Damian whispers.

Tim looks up at the case, eyes burning. He feels sort of choked up, but he swallows down the pain and grief that rise up at the thought of Dick, of his brother, of the funeral that Damian had missed. Of the fact that he had seen Dick dead, in a coffin prepared for a burial. It had been one of Tim's lowest moments, and even know, his breath stills catches and he can't help but feel like he's breaking apart—shattering, really.

But Damian needs him. Damian hadn't been alive for Dick to die.

So Tim buries that grief and says in the steadiest voice he can manage, "Yes."

"I failed him."

"No," Tim says, and the words burn his tongue at the sudden anger and rage. Damian startles and looks up at him, eyes red rimmed, still trembling, and Tim deflates slightly, but he's still vehement when he tells Damian, "No. You didn't fail him. You weren't even there, Damian."

"Exactly!" Damian yells, pushing away from Tim with a suddenness that leaves Tim feeling cold, cold, cold.

He idly wonders if that's the reason Dick always tries—tried—to cuddle with everyone. Damian especially. He wonders if Dick ever felt this cold when he let go of someone, and whether that's the reason he always pounced on whoever he could get away from. But that thought hurts too much to really ponder much longer, so Tim pushes it away and returns his attention to Damian.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Don't you get it?" Damian cries, face scrunched up against tears again. "He died because I wasn't there to protect him! Grayson only died because I died! I failed him!"

By now, Damian's full on sobbing, ugly hiccups and desperate breaths making his whole body shake with his emotions. Tim, at a loss to do anything else, pulls him back into a hug, and Damian all but falls into his embrace.

"It's not your fault, Damian," Tim says, closing his eyes against his own grief. "I promise you, it's not your fault. The Syndicate killed him. No one else but them. You didn't do anything wrong."

"How are you dealing with this?" Damian demands suddenly. "How are you so calm?! Grayson is dead and—and you—"

"I'm not okay, if that's what you mean," Tim says quietly, and Damian falls silent. He's tense, though. Listening. Waiting. But Tim doesn't really know what else to say to the kid—and he is a kid, Tim's painfully reminded—in his arms.

Damian changes the subject, sniffling. "How did you know I was down here?"

"When it happens enough, you learn to pick up on it," Tim tells him, squeezing him lightly. "I've watched you come down here a few times since you've gotten home."

Damian nods slowly before he relaxes into Tim's grip, leaning his head on Tim's chest. "I miss him," he whispers.

"Me, too," Tim whispers back, and this time his voice hitches a little bit.

He looks back up at the case, the memorial for his dead brother, and he can't quite help the hitch in his breath as he remembers that never again will he be able to crash on his brother's couch when he's too tired to go home, or shove Dick's face out of the way of his laptop while Dick's whining about watching a movie, or patrol with Dick and have fun, or hold Dick's hand, or wrap his arms around his brother when he's looking for comfort. He'll never have that with Dick ever again.

"I miss him so much," Tim tells Damian. "So much that it physically hurts."

Damian is silent for a moment before he asks in a small voice, "What do we do now?"

"Keep moving," Tim tells him. "We keep moving. For Dick."