A/N: Wow, I'm not very good at remembering all the things I'd intended to say in the first author's note. This one: LEAVE ME PROMPTS. I'm not nearly creative enough to keep coming up with my own ideas; you guys have got to help me out. Pretty please? With a cherry on top? Make it as vague or as detailed as you want, give me the characters. I'm here for you, you guys make the rules. I don't really know how this turned out. Fluffy, maybe? Hopefully still in some plane of possibility and not completely OOC….hopefully. (psst! I'll only know if you tell me!)

So, now that that's out of the way, enjoy!

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The evening at the Manor is quiet as ever, if not for the lack of noise then for the way it all gets lost in the vastness. Upon entering the kitchen Tim quirks an eyebrow to the scene he finds, but, to his credit, his stride doesn't falter. Alfred Pennyworth (the most mysterious force in the cosmos, Tim is absolutely certain) has somehow, somehow gotten the demon spawn to sit at the island with his homework as dinner's prepared.

It would appear that Alfred was paying no mind to the boy glowering at a small textbook. That his attention was solely on the carrots he chopped with expert speed and a certain refinement that belongs to Alfred and him only. In reality—and to everyone's common knowledge—he's really keeping his hawk eyes trained on the Boy Wonder. Damian's school attendance had been a fight, Tim knows this, and even now he views it as more of a covert mission than a learning environment. He thinks he's there to observe 'normal, inferior' children, and Bruce knows he's there to learn and make friends.

Tim's sure they're both lunatics, but Alfred is at least pretending to side with Bruce, so he says nothing.

Instead, Tim takes a roundabout way to the refrigerator, just so he can glance casually over Damian's shoulder, note the long division problem scrawled across the paper (among a pile of eraser shavings), and say "Forty-seven, remainder five," in a cheerful tone, all before taking a bottle of cold water from the lower shelf.

A ripping sound cuts through the kitchen, but the thing that concerns Tim is the lack of words. More specifically, the lack of vehement, hate-fuelled threats and derogatory snaps that come from the kid whenever the world is rotating.

Tim rises and turns around, half-expecting to find a sword to his throat. In its place is a boy scowling deeper than his young face should allow, and not only is his assignment shredded, but so are the pages of the book.

"Damian?" Tim asks in equal parts exasperation and shock. "Hey! You can't do that to school property—"

Leaving the rest of the book on the counter, he's already storming out of the room. Gone before a lecture can even start.

Alfred, on the other hand, looks like he's gearing up for a speech as he turns toward Tim, knife still in hand, and opens his mouth.

"I'm on it, Alfred," he says quickly, setting the bottle down and holding up his hands as if to hold off an attack. Swiftly moving toward the door his little 'brother' exited from, he just barely hears:

"Do use caution, Master Tim. He's been looking for an excuse to maim somebody all afternoon."

Damian's not stupid, so he obviously didn't go to his room. Nor does he occupy the study, the Cave, or the general living room. There are a couple of good hiding places he learned in the time he lived at the Manor, but Damian doesn't occupy any of them. He finds the kid as he passes Bruce's master bedroom, standing in front of the grand, floor-length mirror. The mirror was made for a body the size of the Batman, not his ten-year-old son.

Tim raps his knuckles against the doorframe, but Damian doesn't start so he enters. He walks up and, careful not to accidentally bump into his back, stands behind the kid to admire the reflection. Damian looks absolutely surly, while Tim's hand rests against his hip so he doesn't give in and ruffle Damian's hair. He might be evil…be he just looks like such a kicked puppy that even Tim fells a little pity. Having been on his second eraser and first piece of lead, the fourth grader's frustration had been evident. It would be a lie to say that he hadn't been asking for it.

He could wait for Damian to start talking, but he doesn't want to be standing here still when Bruce gets home…

"It's no big deal, you know. You'll pretty much never need to know long division." Smooth, Tim, really smooth.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Drake," Damian huffs. A small vein is standing out above his left collarbone, a major tell for him. Tim simply rolls his eyes.

"My spelling's atrocious," he admits factually. "Jason always had that problem with authority. If anything went wrong for Dick in school, he was too perfect—that'll get you into trouble in excess. And," he pauses to build the suspense and wait for Damian to meet his eyes in the mirror. Just like Bruce, as calculating and wounded. Less afraid of death than failure. "unless Alfred lied to me, Bruce never got the best grades in math," he stage whispers, face completely serious. It's okay, Dami. Nobody's perfect.

"I appreciate the misplaced sentiment, Drake, but I have no such quarrels. I'm hardly attending for the purpose of academia." Thank you, Tim. Don't think any less of me.

"Of course. But that doesn't mean Alfred's going to let you drop out." You're welcome. Just get help before you get behind.

And before it could get too terribly awkward or Damian asked if he meant that Tim would teach him himself, Alfred called them for dinner. Another flash of a smile in the mirror toward his younger brother and Tim was out the door, halfway down the staircase when a grin ghosted across Damian's feature, his hand coming to a rest on his shoulder where Drake's had touched on his way out.

If that obsolete pet of his father's told as much as an ant about Damian's…delayed long division abilities, he would live only long enough to see the things he loved burn.