Chapter Text
Dragons.
Dragons have been around as long as Tim can remember. Well — maybe not full dragons, not the massive sky-blocking beasts from old carvings and stained-glass windows — but hybrids. Enough dragon to matter. Enough dragon that you always know when you’re standing next to one.
The different types are pretty basic. Fire, ice, storm, earth, water, wind, poison, shadow, light, and metal dragons. The categories are repeated so often they feel like scripture. Like something memorized in nursery books and whispered over cradles.
You can usually tell what someone is by the air around them. Fire hybrids run warm, sometimes too warm, the scent of smoke clinging faintly to their clothes. Ice hybrids leave the air crisp, sharp, like frost before dawn. Storm hybrids feel charged — static skimming along skin. Earth hybrids smell faintly of loam and stone. Water hybrids move fluidly, soft and cool. Wind types never sit still. Poison dragons have a sharpness that burns the back of your throat. Shadow types feel like dimmed rooms. Light types make chandeliers seem brighter. Metal dragons carry the tang of iron and oil.
It’s obvious.
It’s instinct.
However, Tim doesn’t seem to be any type.
His parents give him pills that help with not being a hybrid. That’s how they phrase it. Help with not being a hybrid. The only one in the world, it seems. The only anomaly.
The pills rattle in amber bottles on his nightstand. Chalky, bitter things that stick to his tongue if he doesn’t swallow fast enough. They leave a strange aftertaste — metallic, almost coppery — that lingers at the back of his throat.
He doesn’t have wings to fly with.
He never gets his horns.
Hell, not even scales.
His shoulders are smooth beneath pressed silk. His hairline bare. His skin unmarked except for the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
He’s been to many galas.
Tonight is no different.
The ballroom glitters gold and white, chandeliers blazing overhead, crystal refracting light into sharp shards that stab into his eyes if he looks too long. The air smells like perfume layered over expensive wine, over roasted meats, over something faintly animal beneath it all — the scent of hybrid pheromones mingling.
People stick to their hordes. They cluster naturally, unconsciously forming tight circles. Bodies angled inward. Wings tucked protectively around smaller forms. Tails coiled around chair legs.
Hatchlings keep close to their parents. Apparently scenting one another.
Tim watches the subtle way adults lean down, press noses to hairlines, inhale slow and deep. The way hatchlings relax instantly, shoulders melting, eyelids drooping in contentment. The exchange is quiet, intimate. Familiar.
He’s always so tired, so he keeps close to his parents, but he has never been scented before.
Apparently he doesn’t have one.
No scent.
No pull.
No instinctive comfort.
Just exhaustion that sits in his bones like wet cement.
He watches as Mr. Wayne — or who he knows as Batman — scents his newest hatchling. Damian stands stiff at first, chin tipped up stubbornly, small horns gleaming beneath gelled hair. Bruce’s large hand cups the back of the boy’s neck with surprising gentleness. He bends, inhales slow.
The movement is protective. Instinctive. Ancient.
Damian’s posture shifts almost immediately, tension bleeding from his shoulders. His tail stills. His sharp expression softens by degrees.
Tim watches the others correct the younglings. A light tap beneath a chin to straighten posture. A firm hand guiding a restless tail to stillness. Quiet murmurs about manners and presentation.
Bruce does it to any hatchling close by. Not just his own. He rests a steadying palm between small shoulder blades, adjusts cufflinks, offers low, grounding reassurances.
He’s known for being very gentle with other horde hatchlings.
It’s… off-putting.
Why would he see the need?
Why do all that?
The thought sits sour in Tim’s stomach. He shifts his weight, the polished floor cool even through the thin soles of his shoes.
Another thing Tim doesn’t understand.
Instincts.
Why let them dictate what you do?
Why curl around a nest because your body tells you to? Why hoard objects? Why scent and claim and posture?
Tim has no desire to nest or burrow or be close to anyone.
The idea of someone pressing their face into his hair makes his skin crawl.
It’s all confusing. And unnecessary.
He watches as his parents speak to a crowd of investors. Their smiles are sharp and curated. Laughter rings out — practiced, hollow. Glasses clink.
He doesn’t exist other than to be shown off to everyone here.
“Look at our son.”
“He’s fifteen.”
“So well behaved.”
“So composed.”
He stands slightly behind them, spine straight, hands clasped loosely in front of him like he’s been trained. Which he has.
The lights feel too bright. The music too loud. His collar too tight against his throat.
He sighs quietly.
He walks to his mother, leaning just close enough to whisper in her ear about the bathroom. Her perfume is overwhelming up close — something floral and sharp that burns behind his eyes.
She doesn’t look at him fully. Just gives a tight nod.
He steps away before the investors can turn their attention toward him.
The hallway outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer. The music muffles into a distant hum. His shoulders droop the second he’s out of sight.
The air feels easier to breathe.
He gets to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. The click echoes faintly in the tiled room. Marble countertops gleam beneath recessed lights. The scent of lemon cleaner hangs faintly in the air.
He grips the edge of the sink and looks up.
His makeup is still intact.
His eye bags are concealed — good. The concealer sits smooth beneath his eyes, hiding the purple bruising that never quite fades. He leans closer, checking for creasing.
His body always feels so… heavy.
Like gravity grips him tighter than everyone else.
He’s either too hot or too cold — never in between.
Right now, he’s hot.
Heat crawls beneath his skin like something restless. Like coals banked too long. Sweat prickles faintly along his spine beneath his dress shirt. The collar chafes.
He shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over the counter, then tries to fan his face with one hand. The air barely helps.
His skin feels tight. Overstimulated.
He’s become so sensitive to light in recent years. The fluorescent bulbs above him buzz faintly — a high, piercing sound that drills into his skull. The brightness makes his vision swim if he stares too long.
It’s like he has a fire beneath his skin.
He can barely walk out in the sun anymore without getting dizzy and collapsing. The memory of pavement rushing up toward his face flashes behind his eyelids. The way the world tilts without warning.
After every panic attack, he gets migraines the size of Gotham.
Pressure builds behind his eyes, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. It feels like something expanding inside his skull, pressing outward. His jaw tightens automatically.
His parents give him more supplements to try to counteract his symptoms, but they just aren’t working.
The pills sit heavy in his stomach.
They try to keep him inside, as if he wouldn’t go out at night to watch the bats.
The night air is cooler. Softer. The darkness easier on his eyes. He likes standing beneath the manor’s eaves and watching the shapes wheel across the sky, silent and free.
They try to lock him in the manor.
He was fifteen, for God’s sake.
Let a boy live.
He takes a slow breath.
In through his nose. Out through his mouth.
He closes his eyes and presses his fingers lightly to his temples, trying to keep the migraine down to a minimum. The tile floor is cold beneath his feet. The bathroom hums softly around him.
He waits until the pounding dulls to something manageable.
It’s time to get back to the party.
He slips his jacket back on, smoothing the fabric down his arms. He straightens his cuffs. Composes his expression.
By the time he opens the bathroom door, his face is neutral again.
Controlled.
He turns and walks back toward the ballroom, light and noise spilling out to swallow him whole.