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Timothy Drake-Wayne has always been in want of a little sibling.
He had grown up to silent halls and absent parents, that when they bothered to return, only viewed him as an accessory. A little doll to better their image and to mold him into their perfect little puppet. For a while it worked, he was shaped to his parents expectations and rules and hardly broke character. He smiled and conversed with the guests at the galas, he wore the ridiculous suits and brushed his hair the way his mother liked it when he was home. Tim followed his father’s example and made connections through the older Drake’s associates’ children.
But when the party was over, the golden lights dimmed to black and the constant hum of overlapping voices died with the night, Tim was awfully alone. The sleek white walls of Drake manor reflected the careful and perfectly selected decorations of the near empty home. Decades old pillows sat in pristine condition on the never touched couch, perfectly polished appliances glinted in the light having never really been used. And the quiet…the encompassing quiet that suffocated the boy.
It followed him no matter where he went in the cold estate. His voice echoed and never carried back. And he was jealous, a saddened kind of jealous, though. One that didn’t make him angry or lash out—he couldn’t afford to. If he does, than his mother wouldn’t hug him when she returns for being a good boy—instead it made his heart clench at the sight of the neighbors or other children at the parties. Mostly, it was the Waynes.
There was only two of them. Two boys a little older than he was and they were always together at the galas. The older one, Dick Grayson, was eighteen when Tim had just turned nine, the first time they interacted. He was bright smiles and a contagious laughter. The way he carried and presented himself was what his parents wanted Tim to replicate, to bring their family attention by emulating the charismatic oldest son of Bruce Wayne. Then there was Jason Todd, the little brother just shy of fourteen, who stood by his older brother’s side despite not liking the attention. Tim could tell he wasn’t used to his kind of life. He was jumpy and antsy and looking over his shoulder like he was going to be kicked out any second for trespassing. But he was kind. He played with the younger children as if he was their own older brother, spoke about the novels Wayne manor had and never once treated Tim badly.
And when little Tim watched from across the gala floor, loosely holding onto his mother’s dress skirt because heavens forbid Tim leave wrinkles in her Christian Dior gown, he saw the brothers smiling and laughing. Wide smiles and belly-aching laughter as they jokingly roughhoused in the middle of the banquet hall, spouting references and egging the other on. Tim would watch at almost every function, the two would stay in their own little world, protected by their laughter and their father’s name. He would watch Dick Grayson stand up for his little brother insulted him for being a “street-rat” or a “shelter mutt.” He would watch when Jason Todd picked fights with the too-touchy men and women that tried to put their hands on his older brother, how he would snap and bark and push them back.
Tim wanted that.
He yearned for the camaraderie, the friendship, the companionship that comes from a sibling. Be that a older or little one.
Tim just didn’t want to be alone.
So when he found out the Waynes were the Bats, the costumed vigilantes that protected the city, he didn’t know why he felt like there was hope for him. Why? He didn’t know. He had no skills that could help them as they fought criminals and saved people. Tim was just a scrawny kid with a camera who could be knocked over by a particularly strong gust of wind. But still, he climbed out onto Gotham roofs and watched with a sense of longing as Nightwing (Dick Grayson) and Robin (Jason Todd) laughed like they always did at the galas.
Though there were times when tensions were high between them, the laughter replaced for sullen silences. Sharp jabs made of words and annoyed glances, they still stuck by each other. Protected the other despite the anger between them. Nightwing still jumped in the way of too harsh punches, Robin getting nicked by sharp knives. They did whatever they could to protect the other, even when they didn’t like the other for whatever reason. Even when they yelled because they did something dangerous, when they were angry the other got hurt for something dumb; they were still brothers.
And then Robin died.
Jason disappeared.
Jason died.
Tim watched, now fourteen, the same age Jason was when Tim met him for the first time at a gala, as Batman struggled to pull himself back together. He watched as Nightwing fled from Gotham because too much of it reminded him of Jason. He watched as Batman took too many hits in the grief of his son. Watched as the petty criminals were hospitalized by the onslaught of anger that coursed through Batman’s’ fists.
It wasn’t right, this wasn’t how things were supposed to be. Batman was above merciless beatings, he knew when to stop but he wasn’t. He wasn’t stopping. Tim had to do something. He can’t just sit by while Batman continued on this self-destructive path.
Tim became Robin.
-•-
Bruce has been gone for almost a year and Tim was ready to pull his hair out. He’s tried everything. He’s exhausted all the resources he can think of and he was ready to cry from frustration in the cold, empty walls of his little apartment. He hated the quiet. It was too much like Drake manor, too much like the lonely nights in an empty house. He didn’t want to go back to that but it seemed he had no choice.
Alfred was off in England without Bruce to attend to. Dick split his time between Bludhäven and Gotham as the new Batman, this time Batman didn’t have a Robin. He didn’t need one. This Batman knew when to stop, when to show mercy—he also didn’t want to drag another child into this world. Into the one that killed Jason and tortured Tim. And Jason, well, he was currently running a coup from within Roman Sionis’s operation to take down the trafficking ring that’s been building for the past three years.
Tim ran a hand down his face, his palm scratchy and dry, cold too.
There was still one more option, but everything within him was saying that it was a bad idea. That no matter how much it might be worth it—Bruce back from wherever he was, arms open and grateful for his rescue. Holding his children tight in his arms and worrying for their well being while he was gone—it does not justify the pain he will have to endure.
But Tim wants his dad back. He wants to be able to go home on Saturday nights and have a family dinner with Bruce at the head of the table, Cassandra beside him and his brother’s on the opposite side. He wants to smile and laugh with his siblings and friends the same way Dick and Jason had done all those years ago.
He grabbed a backpack, mindlessly shoving clothes, his laptop, and various other gadgets in the bag before he made his way to the cave. Dick wasn’t in, his tracker placed him in the narrows with Cass. Duke was asleep because he worked day shift and only woken in times is emergency. Steph was studying and Jason was…Jason was doing something. So, in theory, the cave should be void of people. His presence wouldn’t even sound an alarm (as he programmed it to do so.) Tim knew the coordinates he needed were in the computer, knew that they were attached to the two files for the father and daughter halfway across the world, and all he needed to do was plug them into the bat-plane and take off. Have autopilot do all the work and he can just take a nap in the back, one he desperately needed.
So that’s what he did.
-•-
Now, when Tim decided to partner with Ras to bring Bruce back, he wasn’t expecting him to use all kinds of dirty tricks to make Tim his heir. And frankly, Tim didn’t want to be the old man’s heir. He was already rich enough from Drake industries and Wayne Enterprises, so it wasn’t money he needed. He didn’t want an army, he was already trained by assassins, Lady Shiva when he first donned the Robin mantel and his tentative partnership with Ra. Tim also didn’t want anything to do with Ras, the man was old and crusty, and weirdly obsessed with him and his dad.
Didn’t help that the guy had a jar with his spleen in it. Yay.
“Timothy, in here,” Talia commanded from somewhere to his right. He had spent too much time here, but his mission was successful. Bruce was back. Ras’s connections and influence was enough and now Tim was trying to get back home.
His brothers were probably worried about him, he did just vanish into thin air, didn’t leave a note or anything so he was expecting a stern talking to. Cass would be next to them, Duke behind her as their newest sibling, and just shaking her head in disappointment before she would give him a bone crushing hug. Stephanie would tell him she was glad he wasn’t dead, arms around him tight, before she would punch him a few times for making her worry.
“Talia, if I don’t leave now, I won’t be able for another three months,” He whispered as he followed her down the dark hall. He knows he shouldn’t. She could be leading him to a trap and he was still recovering from his involuntary splenectomy. Sure, the pit waters healed him, leaving not even a scar, but he was still sore.
“And you will leave,” She said unlocking a door. “But I cannot, in good conscience, let you leave without him.”
“Him? Whose “him?” Talia lit the lantern that rested on a nearby table and in the light of the flame, Tim was able to see him. He was tiny. Just shy of two feet and probably as heavy as a small watermelon. His hands (tiny hands!) were clenched into small fists either side of his head and a pacifier bobbed in his mouth every now and then. His chest moved as he breathed, shallow breaths for Tim but slow, and deep ones for the baby in the crib. In the flickering orange light, Tim could make out a full head of black hair and caramel colored skin. “Talia?”
“This is Damian,” She traced the side of the baby’s face with the back of a finger. “My son.”
“Your son? With who? I didn’t know you had a son.”
“The only one my father deems worthy to sire a child,” Talia looks at him. “Your father.”
“Bruce? That makes no sense, he’s been gone for almost a year, there was no way you were able to conceive if he—” Tim paused, pieces clicking together in his head. She was able to conceive. She did have a chance. Before Bruce vanished and had gone missing. About eight months back, Bruce was still lost, but nine months before then (if Damian had a normal gestational period) Bruce was still here. Tim remembers Bruce leaving for a weekend, a business trip turned mission that resulted in a report he asked no one read.
“Oh my god.” Tim ran a hand trough his hair. “Wait, you want me to leave with him? But why?”
“I cannot do much to protect him from my father’s teachings and I refuse to watch my son be punished because I was foolish to fall in love,” Talia picked Damian up and, with as much gentleness an assassin could have, placed him in Tim’s arms. He was small, oh so small, in Tim’s arms. And he sighed, a deep, slightly stuttering sigh of content as he pressed his face further towards Tim’s chest and clenched his fist in the fabric of his tunic. “I will buy you extra time. There is a tunnel on the southwest corner of the compound, it will take you to a village at the base of the mountain, and there is a man who will help you escape.”
“What about you? What do I tell Bruce?” Tim said watching as Talia added another small bag to his own possessions.
“Tell him what I have told you,” She instructed and began to wrap a cloth around Tim to keep Damian secured. It was snug and Damian was barely heavy enough to cause any discomfort in his shoulder where the knot was. “And do not fret about me. Your mission now is to go home and care for you brother. Now go before I change my mind.”
Tim turned from the spot he had been frozen in, arms holding Damian as he ran to lessen the jostling he might get from running. His feet silent against the stone floors and Tim could faintly hear the sound of a fight behind him. The clanking of metal against metal, spines broken on wood pillars, and bodies dropping like flies. He risked a look back and ducked just in time before the edge of a blade would have impaled the back of his neck.
He twisted from the motion, so that he was now facing the ninjas after him. Three in total, who knows how many more waiting to jump in and strike. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Tim can take them and leave the fight victorious with a few bruises and cuts, maybe if he wanted to be lazy, a broken hand. But he can’t now, if he gets trapped in any sense of the word, they could hurt the baby. The baby who was still asleep in the makeshift sling and still had an iron tight grip on his tunic.
A kick at the nearest ninja sent him and the one behind tumbling to the ground, swords clattering out of their grip and gave Tim a weapon. Katanas weren’t his preferred weapon, but he has no room for complaining when it cuts through tendons like butter. Coating the blade and the floor in crimson. The butt of the hand made contact with the side of another’s head, not enough to knock him out, but to make him stumble so Tim could sweep his legs out from under him.
The passage was just around the corner, he could see Talia’s initials engraved in the wall. A hand grabbed his ankle and he stumbled to the ground, an arm around Damian as he landed on his back. The ninja pulled on his leg, jerking him closer and Tim threw one of the few knives he had on him. The small blade, four inches long and a few centimeters thick, a perfectly crafted blade gifted to him by Ras.
Tim was not upset loosing it in the stomach of his assailant.
The tunnel door slammed shut behind him, a loud boom echoing down the dimly lit passage and startling the baby. Big green eyes blinked awake before tears began to build. Tim could see his face turn red and scrunch from being awoken harshly, but never once did he cry. The baby wanted to, Tim could tell. The smallest of whimpers and hiccuping breaths against his chest, but he didn’t cry.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Tim lifted Damian closer to his shoulder, the baby’s head pressed against his clavicle and hands gripping Tim’s tunic once again. He swayed back and forth, hand rubbing circles in Damian’s back to calm him. “You’re okay, baby.”
He began the unknown length down the tunnel, his only way to know where he was going was the dim light of the torches on the wall. Orange embers falling into ashy piles beneath the short stick of wood in the iron holder. He began to think. Why didn’t the baby cry? That’s their thing. They cry when they’re upset, either by hunger, a soiled diaper, or something that scares them. But Damian didn’t. He let the tear well up and fall but not once did he wail, and that was the intriguing bit.
Wasn’t there a study done, one that focuses on facial emotional recognition in infants? Tim swore he had homework about it in his psych class in school (whenever he bothered to show up.) But in the video, a grainy texture to the video to date the piece, when the babies would cry and the mother did nothing, the baby would stop. They would learn their cries meant nothing.
Did this happen to Damian? Were his cries gone unheard?
He grew angry at the thought. He wanted to go back and blow up the compound much like the others. Ras wouldn’t even know it was him. He didn’t know it was him last time and he’ll for sure wont know this time. How dare Ras do this to a baby? Was the man that cruel? He went on and on in that boring, flat voice of his about how one day he (and Tim because he really wanted Tim to be his heir) will save the world and start it anew with his people as it’s only inhabitant. But then he treats a baby—the embodiment of pure innocence and born without sin—like this?
Ras had the audacity to treat his baby brother like—
Tim stopped in his tracks. The light of one of the fading torches bright in his eyes and warm against his cheek the closer he got.
He looked down at Damian, his breath had evened out, the faintest of tear tracks dissolving into his round cheeks and into Tim’s shirt. And his hand. The hand that so impossibly small against his own, whose skin was softer than silk and free of impurities, held onto Tim as if he was the only thing keeping him safe. As if Tim was the only thing he cared for.
And it was then that Tim remembered the wish he’s had for years. The heart clenching, yearning he had when he saw Dick and Jason at the galas as a child. The longing of having someone by his side no matter what in those cold, lonely nights. The dreams of a sibling playing with him in the empty halls of the Drake Estate.
Tim felt tears build in his own eyes. A lump caught in his throat and a smile etching itself across his face as he squeezed the baby a little tighter. One hand splayed across his back and the other cupping the back of his head, fine black hair tickling his palm. Sure it was nearly fifteen years too late, the lonely nights have all but passed, but he was oh so terribly happy.
He pressed a kiss onto Damian, one so gentle Tim didn’t even think his lips touched him in fear he would vanish, and he whispered. He spoke so soft, so carefully as to not startle his baby brother, “Hi Damian.” Those green eyes shifted from the torch to Tim. How could a baby have eyes like that? Expressive and wonderful and so full of possibles.
“I’m Tim. I’m your—” Tim wiped the last remaining bit of tears from the corner of Damian’s eyes, the words in his throat struggling to come out, but words he’s dreamed of saying. “I’m your big brother.”
Damian lifted his hand, wrinkles creased into the fabric but Tim could care less, and placed it at the corner of Tim’s mouth. As if he, too, was saying “hello.”
It was warm. A little spot where the sun touched him and Tim knew he was lost forever, wrapped around the impossibly tiny, perfect pinky of Damian’s little hand. He kissed Damian’s palm, a silent promise that only good could come from his hands because he was so perfect in Tim’s arms. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”
Timothy Drake-Wayne was no longer in want for a little sibling.
He has the best one in the world with him.