Archive of Our Own

Click.

Tim holds his breath as he slowly lowers the camera away from his face so that he can see the screen. On it is a corn-yellow bird with white-streaked black wings and a black face. Compared to the still mostly-bare trees in the background, the bird— an American Goldfinch, Tim thinks— is vibrant. This one is probably one of the first to return to Gotham. The photo isn’t bad, certainly, but the longer he stares, the more off it seems. Maybe if I zoom in and change the contrast some it’ll be better. Or perhaps he can ask Bruce for some new equipment— Tim has been considering purchasing a new Medium telephoto lens for a while.

It’s early spring— only a few weeks into March— and the morning is still chilly enough that Tim is wearing a light jacket over his sweatshirt, and a beanie. His breath curls visibly in front of his face, and Tim shivers a bit as he readjusts his position in the tree, regretting the choice to go gloveless. He brings the camera up again, adjusts the focus, presses his face against the optical viewfinder and—

“AH!”

The bird springs from the branch and flies away with an alarmed chirp. Tim wavers in his perch for a pulse-pounding moment before he’s able to reach out and secure a hand-hold in a nearby branch. He exhales deeply, swallows, and brings his free hand up to clutch at his camera. After regaining some of his calm, Tim looks up at the source of his alarm: a binoculars-clutching Damian Wayne, who is perched in the tree directly in front of Tim, staring back at his older brother with distaste.

“You should be ashamed of yourself for being so easily frightened, Drake.”

Tim bites back on an immature, ‘I was here first!’ and lets out an extended sigh instead. He suspects that most of the others would have startled too— maybe not Bruce, but when does he ever startle— but Damian won’t believe it, so why waste time arguing? “Why are you here, Damian?”

“Tt. I am doing an Ornithological census of Father’s land. What are you doing here, Drake?”

Tim feels an odd combination of completely baffled and amused. The early hour and their unusual location add an extra flavor of abnormality to the situation. Even though he wants to say, ‘So you’re doing fancy bird-watching,’ or something of the sort, Tim knows that needling the youngest Wayne will only broker an argument, and he has been shoved from dangerous heights by the brat more than enough already. See, Bruce, I can be the mature one, he thinks snidely. “I’m practicing my photography.”

“Oh, that. Your ‘hobby.’”

Tim scowls. “Just because you don’t do things for fun doesn’t mean that others can’t. Why do you think Bruce and Clark have their monthly Scrabble matches?”

“Tt. Father is testing his mental acuity against the alien, Drake.”

“Riiiight; that’ll be news to your dad. And Clark too. Anyway, as it turns out, my hobby is quite useful— not that hobbies need to be useful, necessarily, but... You know how Bruce uses crime-scene photos? Who do you think does some of the photographing?”

Damian’s frown, which had been turning dangerously downward, abruptly vanishes. He blinks. His breath curls visibly from his nose. Tim is amused to see that he has borrowed one of Dick’s long-forgotten sweatshirts, which is too big for him. “Are you implying that Father uses your photos for—”

“Yep, he does.”

The brat is silent for a long moment after that, long enough for him to begin packing up his supplies— best to quit while no blood has been shed, and his hands are pretty cold— but then Damian sighs softly. “What were you photographing?”

He blinks, feeling thrown by the lack of disdain and ‘Drake’ in the question. So Tim answers in like: “Well I was photographing the birds.”  

Damian’s expression becomes slightly more neutral, and that much more unreadable. Tim swallows nervously. He’s been around Damian long enough to recognize his I’m-happy-but-don’t-want-to-say-so face. What have I gotten myself into? “Have you done this often?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you frequently photograph birds as part of your ‘hobby,’ Drake?”

He blinks, feeling as if he’s somehow entered a bizarre parallel universe. I’ll have to ask Bruce if he and the league have accidentally messed with the time-stream recently. “Uh yeah. Actually since I moved in. I just… haven’t had the time to lately.” Tim is aware that most people don’t count ‘the last few years’ as lately, and he doesn’t say that ‘I only took it up again because I needed something to do that would give me an excuse to get away from everyone.’

Damian doesn’t need to hear that.

“May I see some of your work?”

Not quite sure where this is going, Tim agrees: “Sure.” Might as well encourage Damian when he’s actually being civil. Carefully, carefully, he climbs out of his tree, and sees that Damian does as well. Then Tim walks forward, and angles his camera so that the youngest Wayne can see the screen.

A few days later, he’s eating a bowl of cereal, dead tired after pulling an all-nighter, when Damian plops himself down on the bar stool next to Tim, already wearing his Gotham Academy uniform. This time, he doesn’t startle as badly, and the youngest Wayne politely catches his water glass before it can spill more than a few drops. “Thank you?” Tim asks.

Damian nods, and it doesn’t even look that smug. His earlier apprehension, from when the Demon Brat had asked to see his bird photos, returns. “You are welcome, Drake.”

Tim sighs, wishing that he hadn’t finished his coffee already. “What do you want, Damian?”

The kid bristles. “I do not want anything from you—”

Tim snorts. “Sure you don’t. That’s why you didn’t say anything rude when you startled me, and that’s why you’re still being ‘nice.’”

“I’m nice to you!”

He eats a final spoonful of cereal, and stands to place the empty bowl in the sink. “I— we’re not nice, Damian.” Then, not paying attention to the silence behind him, Tim leaves.

“Timbo!”

Tim sighs, and lowers his bo staff. “Yes, Dick?”

Dick trots over to him jauntily, and picks the spare bo staff. He arches an eyebrow. Tim nods. His brother attacks.

A while later, he holds up a hand, panting. Dick steps back, lowering his weapon. Tim steps off of the mats and walks over to the bench where he left his water bottle. He gulps down some water, sets the bottle down, then steps back onto the mat. Dick does too.

Tim brings his staff up, and makes the first move. “What do you want?”

Dick looks mock-hurt. “What, can’t a guy just want to spar with his little brother, Timmers?”

Tim narrows his eyes, and dodges another hit. “Sure, but I mean… aren’t you busy?”

“Not particularly at the moment. I just wanted to see you, and—” smack. He barely catches Nightwing’s down strike— “here I am.”

They continue sparring for another half hour or so, then call it quits. As Tim is stretching, Dick sits up from his frankly-ridiculous feat of bendiness. “Well, there is one thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

He sits up. “Is it a case?”

“No.”

Tim frowns. I’m pretty sure no one’s birthday is coming up, but— “It’s not a birthday, is it?”

“Nope.”

Feeling rather like Bruce, Tim demands, “Just tell me, Dick!”

“It’s about Damian.”

Oh. He scowls. “What about him?”

Dick sighs. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

Tim feels his defensiveness, and resentment, rising. It’s the same thing every time. I always have to be the mature one. There are moments where he hates being the older one, misses the simplicity of being an only child; not often, and not for very long, but they’re there. Dick loves him, he understands that, and they have a good relationship. But deep down, Tim knows that Damian is, and always will be, his oldest brother’s favorite. “Well I’ve barely seen him for a week, so whatever he told you that I did, I didn’t—”

Dick holds up a hand, and gives him a stern look. Irritatingly, Tim shuts up. It’s only later that he realizes: that’s a look he learned from Bruce. His irritation doubles then. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Tim. I just want to know what happened.”

“Why?”

“He called me and asked if he’s a nice person.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Ah.” Well that explains why he’s been avoiding me.

“‘Ah’ what?”

“I was in the kitchen, eating breakfast, and he came in, acting all polite and stuff. I asked what he wanted, and— you know how Damian is: he bristled, denied everything. Asked me why I thought he wanted something. I said, ‘We’re not nice.’” And in retrospect, that actually sounds… not good, Tim can admit that. He had meant ‘We’re not nice to each other.’ It’s not his fault that Damian misinterpreted him so badly—

Not to mention: since when has the Demon Brat ever taken anything I said seriously?

Dick blinks, then pinches the bridge of his nose in his hand. “Damn it.”

Tim bristles. “Well we’re not! Look, I didn’t say even that I hate him or that I’m not at least partially to blame for how things are between us, but you’d have pretty unobservant to think that Damian and I get along. Like at all. He literally tried to murder me, Dick, so I think that ‘peacefully co-existing’ is pretty good progress.” He huffs.

Dick sighs, and gives him a look. It’s clear that he has thoughts on Tim’s little rant, thoughts that aren’t entirely positive, and he’s trying to control them. “What was he doing, before your… argument?”

“He was going to ask me something, I think.”

“Any idea of what?”

“No, I— oh. Actually, I think I do.”

Tim remembers Damian’s odd behavior when they ran into each other while bird-watching. How he acted after Tim showed him his photos— Damian had actually said something that was nearly complementary about them: “These are technically proficient.” Which had been… surprising. But now, using his deductive skills, Tim can guess with some accuracy what Damian was going to ask him about. He blinks.

Dick stands up, and silently offers him a hand. “You should talk to him.” He doesn’t say ‘and apologize,’ but then, they both know that Tim is smart enough for him to understand that Dick is implying it. Dick pats Tim on the shoulder, and walks away.

He turns to Jason to vent for advice first.

“Why’d you forgive me? I tried to murder you too, Replacement,” Red Hood mutters, crouching down on the rooftop next to him. Tim has just summarized his conversation with Dick, and what the oldest Wayne offspring wants him to do: talk to Damian, and apologize. Tim is not really sure what he wants to do, but doing that seems… not fun—

And yet. And yet, he can’t quite shake Dick’s suggestion either, much as he’d like to.

Tim huffs, and raises his binoculars again; can’t forget that they’re on a stake-out, after all. The small gathering of dealers is right where he’d left them. He shifts about slightly to increase blood flow to his stiff, somewhat cold limbs. “That’s different. It wasn’t personal, with you.”

There’s a long pause. Then Red Hood snorts, muttering something unsavory beneath his breath. He adjusts his position so that the eerie red hood is facing Red Robin. Tim tries to ignore his own reflection. Then: “‘Not personal?’ I don’t know what you’re on, kid, but if you were a dealer, I’d confiscate all of it in a heartbeat. Murder’s kinda personal.”

He lowers the binoculars, and rolls his eyes. “With you, it was more ideological. You were angry about the idea of me, about how I seemed to—”

“Replace me?”

“… Sure. But you never hated me, just what I represented. With Robin, it’s different. He hates me. He thinks I’m weak, a bad partner for Batman, a bad son. So it’s personal. Does that make sense?”

It’s always hard to tell exactly where Red Hood is looking, but it seems like Jason stares at him for a long, tense moment after he finishes speaking. Then the older vigilante cocks his gun, and nods. “Yeah, I suppose. Still think you’re a few eggs short of a nest though. Besides, we both know that you didn’t come to me for real advice— so I say fuck Dickface and the lot of ‘em.” Tim deliberately doesn’t point out that, technically speaking, he’s ‘one of them.’ Jason knows that.

Red Hood jumps off the roof, and Tim hears a few shouts, followed by gunshots and screaming. He winces. Bruce is going to be so mad. With a sigh, Red Robin shoots off his grapple, and joins the fray. He still has no idea what he should do.

The next person he turns to for advice is Stephanie. Spoiler, now Batgirl, has been nearly as maligned by the ‘blood son’ as he has, and Tim would definitely say that their relationship is as contentious— if somewhat less prone to come to blows— as his and Damian’s. Although, he doesn’t think that Damian ever actually tried to kill Stephanie. This time, he’s not looking to vent, but receive guidance. Steph, for as much as she can be angry and brash, is good with people. Like Dick is. Only she is not his older brother.

“You know what I think, Tim,” she says.

“What?” he asks. They’re sitting in a Taco Bell parking lot at two a.m., in Stephanie’s beat-up green 1993 Volvo. It’s quiet save for the low background rumble of the engine, their voices, and the nearly-silent radio.

Stephanie holds up a finger in the universal sign for ‘I’m eating,’ and takes a massive bite out of one of her hard shell tacos. The crunching sounds loud in the silence. She chews, and swallows. “Look, just hear me out. I know you don’t like Damian— and I don’t either— but… you should talk to him.”

He nearly groans, but settles for taking an aggressive sip of his soda. “What makes you say that?”

Stephanie pulls a face. “Oh, don’t bullshit me, Timothy. You came to me for advice— you knew what you were gonna get. I say you should talk to him because, as freaky as it sounds, this may be one thing you two actually agree on. And I know how rare that is.”

Tim does sigh this time. “But—”

Steph puts down her tacos. “Do you know what I would give, to have something like that?” she asks quietly. Tim swallows, and a tense silence falls over the car. The mumbled speech coming from the radio seems especially loud.

He doesn’t know how to respond. Things are— have always been— different, for him and his brothers. Tim knows this. But it doesn’t make it any less awkward when the subject comes up, even if he understands what being an outsider feels like. “If there’s a way that you two can fight less, I don’t see why you shouldn’t try it.”

He meets Stephanie’s intense blue gaze. “Fine.”

After these talks, Tim does what he does best: he analyzes. He’s gotten two outside opinions, both wildly divergent. One’s the one he wants to hear, but then again, Jason had also admitted that he hadn’t really given Tim real guidance. Does that mean that Stephanie’s advice is what he should listen to by default? Yeah. Yeah, it probably is. “Fuck me,” Tim groans, “I guess I’m talking to the Demon Brat. Ugh.”

The funny thing is that he doesn’t end up talking to Damian— Damian ends up talking to him. Or rather, they run into each other again.

It’s early, around eight in the morning, and Tim in in a far corner of the manor’s yard— back where some Wayne ancestor once planted a small, now abandoned, orchard of Cherry trees. Bruce keeps them because his mother had liked to picnic beneath them when their blossoms bloomed. Now they’re scraggly and overgrown, and only a few still produce fruit that’s even somewhat edible. He’s here because the trees are dramatic and interesting to photograph with their few early blossoms. Also, there are a lot of bird species which like fruit, even the unripened sort, which is the only kind of fruit there is in early April.

Currently, Tim’s got a particularly magnificent specimen of Cedar Waxwing in his lens.

There have been other birds he’s seen— either returned from their migration or having never left— but this is the first of this particular species he’s seen this year. The bird’s face looks rather like a domino mask and its black-and-red tipped wings are somewhat reminiscent of the Robin uniform. But Tim enjoys the soft brown which covers most of the bird’s body most. It’s understated, but elegant. Click. He takes a photo, and then frowns as he zooms in. No way. No. Way.

In the bottom left corner of the photo is a tuft of black hair.

Tim looks up from his camera and yes: just under the crest of the small hill which the Cherry trees stand on is a small tuft of Damian’s black hair. Unbelievable. He walks forward quietly, and is only a little irritated when Damian looks straight up at him, appearing unbothered. “Yes?”

Then Tim looks down, and sees that he’s holding a sketchbook, and lying on a rumpled blanket to save himself from the cold, damp grass. And Damian is not nearly as nonchalant as he’d first thought; the kid’s shoulders are tensed, hunching inward protectively over his sketchbook, and his grip on the charcoal stick is tight. He blinks. “I didn’t know you could draw.”

Damian blinks too. Tim crouches down, camera dangling loosely from its straps. Then the brat huffs, and rolls slightly away, closing his sketchbook, thumb bookmarking the page. “It is for my Ornithological survey, Drake. I do not ‘draw’ for—”

“Are you any good?”

“Tt. What kind of question—”

“Well, are you?” Tim repeats. He’s needling Damian now, knowing from prior experience that this is effective. He finds that he’s genuinely curious. Surely not even ‘technologically superior’ DNA, as Damian often claims he has, can grant an individual artistic talent. Bruce, as far as he knows, can’t draw (though Tim supposes he might’ve learned how to at some point), doesn’t sing (often), or play any instruments. He sure as hell can’t cook.

“Yes, I would say that I have some talent,” Damian replies tetchily. He opens the sketchbook to his half-completed rendition of the bird. Tim blinks. That’s actually more than good. He can’t draw, but he can still recognize the skill required, let alone in a medium which seems as difficult as charcoal. And Damian’s sketch is very accurate.

But, notably, there is not a species label next to the drawing.

He looks up from the page to see that Damian is scowling at the grass slightly to his left. His shoulders are tense again. “Do you not know what it’s called?” Damian’s gaze jerks up in surprise. He opens his mouth to say something— probably an insult— but Tim beats him to it. “I could probably teach you, you know… that was one of the things I did with my parents, when they were actually around. Learn to identify bird species, even the exotic ones. They’re everywhere, after all, and sometimes my parents would include pictures of the ones they saw on digs.”

Damian looks less tense now, and his white-knuckled grip on the charcoal has slackened. “I was planning to look the species up on the internet later. But I suppose it would be quicker for you to teach me.”

Tim nods. He sits down properly, making sure that his camera doesn’t hit Damian in the face. “Alright then. That one is a Cedar Waxwing. You can tell because of the plumage— that’s the technical term for a bird’s feathers. I’ll show you the picture I took so you can see the details more closely.”

Damian nods. “Very well.”

Tim brings his camera up, and finds a decent photo. He zooms in, and points to the small red spots on the wings. “A lot of species have unique features— kind of like fingerprints— which you can use as a ‘short cut’ for identification, like these spots here.”

Damian nods studiously. “I see… but what if there are two similar species?”

Tim snorts. “Well, obviously, that’s where it gets more difficult.”

Three days later, Damian approaches him again at breakfast. This time, a very tired Bruce has joined Tim at the island, and they’ve been talking quietly about the latest W.E. business deal. As Damian pads over quietly, Bruce looks down at his youngest, offers him his ‘good morning’ grunt, and shifts over one seat. Damian fills in the space between Tim and Bruce. It feels like a poorly-disguised metaphor for their lives. But surprisingly, Damian does not turn to Bruce, but to Tim.

“May I borrow you camera, Dr— Timothy?”

Tim blinks, meeting Bruce’s just-as-startled gaze. “Er… why do you need it?”

“I would like to take a photo. Of the— crime-scene we investigated last night.”

He squints, not recalling taking any photos on patrol last night. Or any point where he and Damian had been alone for an extended period of time. But just as he’s about to ask, he sees the youngest Wayne’s insistent look. “I think you mean you want to print a photo— get it off the camera?”

Damian nods. “Exactly.”

Tim takes another sip of coffee. “Alright. Remind me later tonight, and I’ll show you how it works.”

“Thank you, Drake.”

“Sure.” Damian turns to Bruce, who is staring openly at them, as if something suspicious has just occurred, but he’s not quite sure what.

“Where were we?” Tim asks.

Bruce blinks, seeming to shake himself from his reverie. “Talking about the shareholder’s meeting, I believe.”

“What was that about, this morning?”

Damian looks up. They’re in Tim’s old bedroom at Drake Manor. He mostly avoids coming here, but the place does have some uses. Mostly as a glorified storage unit and photography studio. He’s just connected his camera to the computer via cable; he’ll show Damian the SD card method later.

Besides him, Damian sighs. They’re close enough that he can hear the nervous swallow which follows. “I do not want Father to know that we—”

“What?” he asks, a little sharply. “That we have something in common? That you don’t totally hate me?”

“I do not hate you, Drake, I merely think you inferior.”

Tim’s mouth hangs open for a long moment at the blatant Damian-ness of that statement. “Well. Thanks for that.”

Damian nods crisply, completely missing Tim’s sarcasm. “You are welcome, I suppose. No, the reason I do not want Father knowing of our… exploits is that he is—” Damian falls silent. Then he looks up, green eyes scrutinizing. “Do you remember when I first got Titus, how Father offered to hire a personal dog trainer for me? How he wanted to take me to the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show?”

Tim nods. “Yeah. You said no, right?”

Damian nods. “I did. Because, although I would like to someday attend Westminster, I will do so on my own terms.”

Ah. Tim frowns thoughtfully. “You’re saying that Bruce can be overbearing. Even if he’s trying to be helpful.”

“… Yes.”

Tim does not say, ‘Well, if you weren’t so secretive about what you like, maybe he wouldn’t be as desperate to connect with you.’ He may not like Damian, may occasionally say cruel things to him, but this is different. Saying something like that would be unproductive. Besides, what the Demon Brat has said is true.

“When I first moved in, he tried to buy me all this fancy camera stuff, offered to enroll me in a class or two. It was nice, but… all I wanted was to continue doing what I’d enjoyed before, you know? Bruce paying attention turned it into a thing, put too much pressure on me.”

Damian nods, looking somewhat startled that Tim understands him, and he likewise feels uncomfortable about it. Tim clicks on the most recent bird photo, and presses print. “I’m gonna show you the SD card method now. Super simple, and much more discrete than this. Anytime you want to print a photo, just let me know and I can get you the SD card, alright?”

“Very well.”

He doesn’t get another chance to go birding for several more weeks.

Riddler breaks out, and sends Gotham’s resident vigilantes into a nights’ long scramble. By the time it’s over, every last one of them is exhausted, Bruce especially— his arm is broken. Dick only manages to stay for two days after the case is wrapped up before he has to return to Blüdhaven for work. Stephanie, for as much as she is part of the family, doesn’t get involved with stuff like this. Jason does, but he still keeps his distance. Most of his assistance comes in the form of hosting Damian and Tim for some very awkward dinners so that Alfred can catch a break.

The rest of the time, it’s just the four of them, and everyone’s tense and unhappy— Damian especially. When he snaps, it would be easy for Tim to snap back, to turn their verbal jabs into a fight. But he restrains himself. Mostly. Tim reminds himself of their recent interactions, which if not entirely pleasant, are certainly less hostile than usual. And he doesn’t want to ruin that progress over some stupid argument they have when they’re both on-edge.

He also doesn’t want to risk them fighting and Bruce getting involved, somehow. He knows that that would only stress Bruce out, and he doesn’t need that right now. So he restrains himself from saying more than an occasional biting comeback. To try and break the tension, he asks Damian if he wants to go birding.

When he says no, Tim doesn’t push— and things don’t get worse.

Bruce gets his full cast off the third weekend of May, much to Dr. Thompkins’ disapproval. It’s a little early, but not entirely outside of the normal time range for the injury, and he promises to wear a brace and be extra careful on patrol. Tim breathes a sigh of relief. Things have been hectic in Gotham with Batman down. Thankfully, Batwoman, Oracle, and Nightwing have been willing to provide back-up for Red Hood, Batgirl, Red Robin, and Robin when they can.

Even so, it’s still been difficult— Clark had even been put in the suit a few times to dispel some of the rumors.

But now Bruce is back, so things mostly return to normal.

“Hey.” Tim is standing a few feet away, looking down at Damian who’s lounging on the couch, phone in hand.

The tween looks up, one eyebrow quirked. “Yes?”

Tim swallows, suddenly feeling awkward. How does Dick do this? “I was wondering if… uh… if you’d like to go out and work on that Ornithological study of yours.”

Damian hesitates for a long moment, and Tim almost worries that he’ll say no again. But he doesn’t. “I see no reason not to. Allow me to gather my supplies, Drake. I will meet you on the back porch.” He looks up, and when their eyes meet, Tim nods.

“See you there.”

“I almost said no.”

“Oh?” Tim asks, shifting sideways and lowering his binoculars so that he can look at Damian more easily. They’re lying in the shaded grass beneath a large Oak tree by one of the ponds. In the water before them, a Snowy Egret slowly struts forward, on the hunt for frogs. Beside him, Damian’s attention does not waver from his sketchbook, which is turned sideways so that he can capture more of the background behind the starkly white bird.

“… Yes. I was telling Colin at school about our previous encounters— I still believe it is odd that we have managed to run into one another twice now— and how you offered to teach me about American bird species. Some of my other, less… civilized classmates overheard our conversation.”

Tim swallows, fully setting down the binoculars now. He has a funny gut feeling that he knows where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. “And what did they say?”

“They implied in no uncertain terms that activities such as bird-watching are effeminate— I believe their precise wording was that it makes me ‘gay.’”

Suddenly, it’s a lot harder to stay calm. Tim takes a deep breath, feeling his fingers dig into the grass, probably getting dirt underneath his nails. Not that that really matters at the moment. A burning anger seeps into his gut. On top of that settles a weary sense of exhaustion. We shouldn’t have to explain this anymore… He takes a deep breath. “They’re wrong. And it’s incredibly offensive to—”

“I know.” Tim goes quiet, and sits up. Damian does as well. “Father explained things to me when I first arrived, including his orientation. Mother— I do not think she cares, exactly, but Grandfather does not… he does not like people who are different.”

Tim nods. Despite the serious topic, a faint smile crosses his face as he remembers how Bruce told him that he was bi. “Hopefully it was smoother for you than it was for me. When Conner and I first started dating, Bruce said that we needed to have ‘a talk.’ Thought he was gonna kick me out or something. Turns out that he’s one of us, and just wasn’t happy that I was dating ‘so young.’”

Damian nods. “I… would imagine he has had time to refine his speech since then. But, to return to the matter at hand, I understand that they are wrong. There is nothing unnatural about people like… you and Kent’s clone. Or Father.”

Tim feels a prickle of irritation at Damian labeling Conner as ‘Clark’s clone,’ but he decides to let it slide. This time. “Good…” He notices abruptly that Damian’s stopped sketching. “Have they— have they bothered you since?”

Damian shakes his head. He answers, Tim thinks, a bit smugly: “They have not. I believe I proved my ‘masculinity’ to them when I punched their leader in the gut.”

He almost sighs. He’s definitely not supposed to do that. But then again: teaching budding homophobes, who are also known bullies, a lesson… “Good for you; just try not to do that often. And talk to somebody— Bruce or Dick— if it happens again.”

Damian nods, resuming his drawing. “I will.”

Tim picks up his camera, and moves it around until the Snowy Egret is within his sights again.

He and Damian are on a solo patrol when it happens.

Since Tim joined the Teen Titians, Bruce sometimes lets him go on patrols alone, though he prefers it if Tim stays with Stephanie, or Dick, or even Jason. “I know that you know what you’re doing, Tim, but I would still feel better if you had some backup with you,” he always says. But it’s not that unusual for Red Robin to patrol parts of Gotham by himself; it’s much more efficient if they split up.

However, it is somewhat unusual for Robin to go with him.

At first, this was because Tim and Damian hadn’t been able to get along well enough for them to patrol together safely. Tim had had no desire to do anything with the kid who had tried to murder him, and Damian had bristled at the very idea of him having to listen to ‘his inferior.’ Bruce also hadn’t trusted in their ability to keep one another— and Gotham— safe.

After Damian had stopped trying to kill him, Bruce had still doubted his youngest’s abilities (or rather, his ability to restrain himself), and so had kept him close for observation. Tim had been fine with that, though a part of him had missed patrolling alone with Bruce. But tonight, Tim has Damian with him.

Bruce, apparently, is expecting something major to go down after getting a tip-off from Commissioner Gordon, and hadn’t wanted to risk Robin being anywhere near it. “Do you think you can handle him for a night?” he’d asked Tim casually last night.

Tim had almost immediately said, ‘No,’ but then he’d thought about it. Perhaps it’s time to test this in the field. “Yes,” he’d said.

So now they’re on patrol together. And Red Robin is in charge.

“We should be helping Batman,” Robin says petulantly.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, and barely represses a sigh. That’s the fifth time he’s said that in the past half-hour. “He’ll be fine, Robin. Nightwing and Red Hood are with him. Besides, somebody’s got to watch the rest of Gotham.”

They’ve been out here for about an hour, and so far, other than Damian’s generally sullen attitude, things have been going well. He’s been listening to Tim— not that he’s had to give many instructions, as there isn’t that much activity tonight. Perhaps he should be grateful, but it just makes Tim more nervous. He worries about Bruce, Dick, and Jason. Stephanie too, as she’s going solo tonight, focusing on picking up Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood’s slack like him and Damian.

Damian tuts beside him, but says nothing else. He’s grateful for it.

“Hey, boys, how’s it going?” Batgirl asks, landing on the roof beside them.

Robin’s scowl, which has only deepened as the night progresses, becomes pronouncedly deeper. “Batgirl.”

Steph nods jerkily at him, then turns to Tim. “Any word from the old man?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. How are things in the East End?”

Steph purses her lips. “Surprisingly quiet. Which is why I thought I’d join you two. In case we have to make a move.” She doesn’t say, ‘In case we have to go help the others,’ but it’s an obvious implication.

Tim nods. “Alright. We’ve just gone over midtown. We should go by the docks.”

“What were you thinking?” Tim demands.

“I could have handled it,” Robin replies coolly. Despite his apparent calmness, Damian’s hands are clenched into fists and his jaw juts out in anger. But at least he isn’t bleeding. For a moment, Tim’s anxiety-induced fury stutters. That was too close. God, what if he’d been—

“That guy was about two seconds away from stabbing you. In the back!” Batgirl exclaims, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Damian scoffs, “Please, Brown. A lone, knife-wielding civilian is far from dangerous. Your actions, though well-intended, were unnecessary.”

Tim and Steph exchange exasperated, scared glances. That isn’t true at all. Tim briefly closes his eyes for a moment, thinking about how close Damian had been to getting seriously injured, and feels immeasurably grateful that Batgirl is with them, and had been able to disarm the criminal. Stephanie opens her mouth, and Tim places a hand on her shoulder, sending her a look.

He sighs, and takes a moment to calm himself.

Oh, he is definitely still angry, and very much annoyed that Damian apparently thinks that he doesn’t have to listen to him— but part of his anger is fueled by fear, and Tim knows that Damian’s actions must have partly been fueled by his worry for Bruce and Dick, if not also Jason, and frustration. And Robin has listened to him for most of the night, so it’s because of this that Tim tempers his words: “Batman wants you to be safe, and he put me in charge because he knows that I want that too. How would B feel if you got hurt? How would we?”

Damian, abruptly, looks surprised. “I—”

Tim sighs. “You have to think about these things, Robin.”

In that moment, Damian looks very small and subdued.

Tim makes an executive decision to cut patrol short after that, and when they get home, informs Alfred of what happened. The butler sends Damian upstairs, and after asking for a more in-depth report, goes upstairs as well. As he and Stephanie are changing, Tim mutters, frustrated, “I’m just so— ugh. Why can’t he listen? He was fine before, you saw it!”

Steph shrugs off her top layer of armor, and sighs. Like him, she’s angry, but mostly frustrated. “I don’t know, Tim. But Bruce is gonna be pissed.”

“A big Bat told me that you two have been avoiding each other, since… you know.”

Tim snorts. “We didn’t hang out a lot together in the first place. So can you really blame me?” And it’s true. Just because he and Damian have done a few things together doesn’t mean that they’re ‘hanging out.’ Damian’s actions from a few days ago have made it perfectly clear that things haven’t really changed that much between them, anyway.

As Stephanie had predicted, Bruce had been very pissed off, and he’d benched Damian for the next two weeks after finding out what had happened. Damian, surprisingly, hasn’t gone out of his way to be rude to Tim, but he’s also not really speaking to him. Unsurprisingly, Tim still doesn’t quite feel like talking to Damian again just yet either.

Dick sighs, looking like he wants to say something about that. But he doesn’t. Instead, he perches on the edge of the desk, and nudges Tim’s shoulder. “It’s kind of hard to hide who you spend time with when there’re only four of you living here full-time, Timbo.”

Tim flushes slightly. “Well it’s none of your business anyway, Dick. Leave it.”

Dick laughs. “So you do hang out together!”

Tim stands abruptly. He feels an echo of his earlier anger, and frustration— as well as, surprisingly, hurt— simmering in his stomach. “Yeah, well. I only started doing stuff with him because I thought it would keep us civil—”

“Tim—”

“What? It’s true. You know how we were, fighting all the time. I was tired of it. But guess I was wrong that it’d work, since he clearly doesn’t respect me enough to list—”

“Tim—”

“or control his temper, or follow instructions. I don’t even like him that much anyway.”

“Is that so? I am glad to know your honest opinion of me, Drake. Thank you.”

Tim whirls around, heart in his throat. Damian is standing a few feet away, having just come down the cave stairs. His gaze briefly flickers sideways, to where Dick is sitting, looking both apologetic and furious. Then it returns to Damian. Who looks hurt. “Damian, I—”

“Save it for someone who you like, Drake.” Damian turns swiftly, and walks up the stairs.

“Shit,” Tim hisses.

Dick stands with a sigh. “Well, guess I better go talk to him. Nice job, Tim.”

He stands there for a moment, feeling uncertain, then flips off his older brother’s retreating form. “Thanks for the warning, Dick,” Tim mutters half-heartedly. It doesn’t help the sinking feeling in his gut. Fuck. I didn’t mean—

Later that night, he finds a page from Damian’s sketchbook lying face-down on his bed. As Tim gets closer, he sees that it’s been ripped in half. He turns the page over carefully. It’s the sketch Damian had done of the Cedar Waxwing, partly based on his photo. The lingering sour feeling in Tim’s stomach grows worse.

He tucks the ripped sketch into one of his desk drawers, and sits on the bed.

Tim doesn’t go out for several days after the incident in the cave, fearing that he’ll run into Damian again— it’s happened twice already, so what are the chances that it won’t happen a third time? He thinks, given the size of the manor’s yard, that it was unlikely for it to have happened at all. Must be the universe’s idea of a joke. But he has never let Damian stop him from doing things before, and in the spirit of spiteful older siblings everywhere, he decides that he won’t let the youngest Wayne stop him now.

Tim heads out, donning only a light sweatshirt. The quiet morning air seems especially invigorating.

By this late into the spring, there should be several species of Finch, Chickadee, Cardinal, Woodpecker— even an odd Seagull or Feral Pigeon— present in the manor’s yard. Yet all he sees are American Robins and some Crows. And after a few odd months of doing this, he has become familiar with what birds prefer which areas. Tim sighs, bringing his camera up one last time to capture the few birds before him. The two American Robins start fighting over a worm.

With a sour feeling in his gut, he turns off the camera and heads back inside.

“I could not help but notice that you and Master Damian have been on the outs recently,” Alfred comments one afternoon.

It’s been a two weeks since his and Damian’s fight, and other than when absolutely necessary, Damian still isn’t speaking to him. It’s been very stressful, and, Tim finds, he feels an irritating sense of guilt. Bruce has also been exasperated with them both. This makes everything even more unpleasant. But if Damian isn’t saying anything, then Tim won’t either.

Alfred, however, is different.

“We have. I… said some less-than-flattering things about him. Which he overheard.”

Alfred pauses his dusting to send Tim a slightly chastising look. “Did you mean them?”

He sighs. “At the moment, yes. Now? No.”

“I see. And have you tried to apologize to the young sir, Master Timothy?”

“He won’t talk to me.” Tim is a little embarrassed that more than a hint of his true frustration leaks into the statement.

Alfred, graciously, only appears to be slightly amused at his problem. “Ah. It is a comfort to know that ‘the silent treatment’ has not gone out of fashion. Master Bruce was rather fond of it during his youth as well.”

Tim snorts. “Still is, I’d say.”

The older man nods. “Perhaps. A gift, in addition to an apology, might do the trick. Good luck.”

Tim nods, and gets to his feet. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“You are most welcome, Master Tim.”

He buys a copy of The Birder’s Bible, writes on the front inside cover: “In case you want to continue learning,” then wraps it up in bird-themed giftwrap, and sets it on Damian’s neatly-made bed. What happens next will be up to him.

“You think a bribe will make me forgive you?”

Tim looks up from his laptop and stares at Damian. He’s standing stiffly in front of the leather sofa where Tim is reclining, doing some W.E. paperwork, and chatting with Conner. Several hours have passed since he left his gift in Damian’s room. He closes his laptop and sets it aside. “It’s not a bribe. It’s a sorry-I-was-an-idiot gift.”

Damian raises an eyebrow, but otherwise doesn’t change his expression. He look startlingly like a miniature Bruce. “Is that so?”

Tim sits up. “Yeah. Look, I— shouldn’t have said what I said. It was hurtful and untrue. But I didn’t actually mean it. I was angry at what you’d done, not at you… if that makes sense?”

Damian’s expression flickers, and his scowl deepens for a moment. Then he says something that’s completely surprising: “Did you say those things because we are not… nice to each other?”

Tim winces slightly. “Even if I was right that you do need to listen to me, I... shouldn’t have said those things. I was frustrated, and not thinking clearly. I’m sorry.”

Damian scoffs. After a brief pause, he says, “To clarify: I will be keeping the book. But I accept your apology, and I… will try not to act so rashly in the future.”

Tim blinks, feeling shocked. “I— okay then.”

Damian sniffs aloofly. “Now that that is settled...” He walks away.

Spring ends as the heat of summer rolls in. His birthday comes around, and Tim is delighted to see that Bruce has gotten him several new camera lenses. Dick buys him and Conner concert tickets, Stephanie gives him several coffee mugs and a nice thermos, and Jason gifts him some premium coffee. “I know you like the good shit, Replacement,” he says. Alfred bakes a cake and makes Tim’s favorite food for their celebratory dinner.

Damian hands Tim a card after he’s opened everyone else’s presents, and all it says inside is: “look in your room.” He feels vaguely apprehensive.

“What’d you get him, Little D?” Dick asks.

Damian sniffs at the nickname. “A gift card to the Nikon store, in case he wishes to purchase more photography equipment— I was unsure what he needed.”

“Thank you, Damian,” Tim interjects, before anyone else can comment. “And thank you all.”

After the festivities are over, he walks quickly back to his room, arms full of presents, and shuts the door. He dumps the gifts on his bed, then looks around. Tucked neatly in between a few books on his bedside table is a small box, covered in red wrapping paper, and a white bow. There is no tag. Feeling slightly nervous, he unwraps the box.

Inside is a simple black picture frame, and inside that is a finished charcoal drawing of a Cedar Waxwing, unsigned. I wonder if it’s the same one as before. With a start, he gets up to check the desk drawer: no ripped paper. Huh. Tim hold the frame up to the light, and can barely tell that the paper it holds was ever torn. He puts it on his desk, so that it’s visible from his bed.

July passes slowly after that, as Gotham is trapped in a rising wave of heat. Days are bright and humid. Patrols are sweaty and uncomfortable. Petty crime is down, but domestic violence cases are up— Gotham stews in the uncomfortable atmosphere. Tim takes to reclining on a couch next to one of the vents when he has time. Thank god for AC.

“I never thanked you for the present.”

At the moment, they’re on a stake-out, gathering information for Batman, who’s been called away to a potentially-volatile situation across town. A damp breeze ruffles Tim’s cape, and he’s grateful for it, even with the humidity. Beside him, Damian is quiet. Everything is quiet, muffled by the both the heat and the late hour. It’s a bit stifling. He keeps one hand by his comm., in case Bruce calls— though Tim doubts that he will.

“Did you not?” Robin asks uninterestedly.

“No. I thanked you for the decoy.”

A pause. Damian is probably wondering why Tim is telling him this now. “I see.”

Tim takes that to mean ‘go on.’ So he does. “I am curious though: why birds?”

Robin actually lowers his binoculars to give him an unimpressed stare. “Are you dehydrated?”

“Nope. Just trying to pass the time— B told us that we’re not supposed to do anything without him, remember?” he asks pointedly.

“Yes.” Damian raises the binoculars again and turns away. He’s quiet for so long that Tim thinks he’s not going to answer the question. But then he does. “For a time when I was little, Grandfather kept several birds of prey. He was experimenting with different training methods to see if they could be made useful to the league, I believe. Sometimes, if I had done well in my training, he would allow me to feed them. But one day he decided that keeping the bird was unnecessary, and… got rid of them.”

The quiet which follows that statement is both heavy and wistful.

“Oh,” Tim says quietly, unsure of what else he can say.

Damian nods, and they go back to watching the dimly lit apartment below.

As August approaches, he starts thinking about Damian’s birthday. The celebration has never been normal— or even as close to normal as their family ever gets— partly because the kid himself has nearly no experience with birthday celebrations. Tim remembers, painfully and clearly, exactly how fast Bruce’s face had fallen when he’d had to explain to his, at the time, eleven-year-old son what a ‘birthday party’ was. This year will also be different because Damian’s going to be a teenager now. If Tim feels kinda old, he can only imagine how Dick and Jason will feel.

This year, he actually wants to get Damian something nice.

Tim scours the web for anything which might make a good present, but doesn’t have much luck at first. Anything that the family knows Damian likes is probably going to be a present already. And the things that (presumably) only Tim knows about— well, he doesn’t feel comfortable exposing them. So he can’t buy Damian a sketchbook, or anything like that. His mind, naturally, returns to birds.

Conveniently, he discovers the New Jersey Audubon Society’s Cape May Fall Festival. It seems both interesting, and is highly-rated. Furthermore, when he checks the dates, he finds that this year’s is happening on a weekend so no school will have to be missed. Perfect. He makes a compromise with himself— as a minor, he technically isn’t allowed to pay for a hotel room, so Bruce will have to be involved somehow. He’ll want to know where his youngest son is, too.

“Come in,” Bruce calls absent-mindedly. Tim strides purposefully into the office and shoves his laptop on top of the stack of paperwork which is balanced precariously on Bruce’s desk. For all that the man stresses neatness and organization, his office is neither of those things.

Tim has a whole speech planned out, but what he actually says is: “Damian likes birds.” Bruce blinks, then glances at his laptop’s screen, which has the festival’s website pulled up in one tab, and the inn’s in another. “It’s happening on a weekend— I already checked the dates— and the Bedford Inn is highly rated, plus it’s only a few minutes from the convention center where the event is.”

Bruce’s eyes meet Tim’s. “You’re telling me this because?”

Tim sighs. “I need to get a birthday present. Damian likes birds, so. I thought he might enjoy this.”

Bruce blinks again, and an expression of genuine surprise ripples over his carefully-neutral features before he composes himself again. He says slowly, as if he’s testing the idea out, “Damian likes birds. So you want to take him to a birding convention?”

“Yes. Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Alright… When is it?”

“October 15 through the 18^th, beginning on a Friday, in Cape May.”

“Let me check my calendar.”

Tim swallows nervously. “Uh. I was kind of thinking that we… might go by ourselves?”

Bruce looks up, brow furrowed. “You’re seventeen, and Damian is twelve.”

“I’ll have had my license for more than a year by then. And Damian will be thirteen.”

“I know how old you both are, Tim.” Bruce’s tone is not entirely devoid of humor, but it does sound like he’s running out of patience. “If you can get someone to go with you, I’ll allow it.”

He sighs, feeling as if a stone’s been dropped into his stomach. Did he not hear what I said? Tim doesn’t want to bring any of the others, but he will if he has to. Though he can’t particularly imagine himself or Damian having a good time if Jason ‘chaperones.’ Dick would be willing, perfectly willing— but something inside him protests vehemently at the idea of inviting his oldest brother. Dick and Damian already have so much in common, his brain hisses, and all you have is this. He could ask Clark, but that feels a little weird too.

“I’ll ask Alfred.”

Bruce nods.

Alfred, thankfully, says that he would be, “Delighted to accompany the young sirs on an outing.”

He makes himself a double espresso, puts it in a thermos, then makes Damian a chai.

Thankfully, Titus doesn’t bark when Tim knocks, and he only looks on disapprovingly as Tim creeps into the room. Damian is sitting up in bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. His hair is puffy, and pajamas wrinkled. He squints up at Tim, taking in his fully-dressedness. “What is the meaning of this, Drake?”

“We’re going hiking.” He sets down the chai on Damian’s bedside table, and retreats to the hallway to wait. Through the slightly-open door, he can hear Damian muttering unsavory things to Titus. But soon enough, the youngest Wayne emerges, dressed accordingly and looking marginally more awake.

In the kitchen, he snags the small backpack he packed last night, and passes it to Damian. “There should be a few breakfast bars in there if you’re hungry. Also some water bottles; but try to save that for later.” Damian nods, awkwardly digging through the backpack as they wander into the garage. Tim unlocks the Lexus, and stops Damian from sitting in the passenger seat. “You’re too small.”

“But Father—”

“I’m not your Dad. Get in back.”

With a disgruntled “Tt,” Damian obliges. Tim sets his phone up, presses ‘Start’ in the Google Maps app, and backs out of the garage. Once they’re on the way down the manor’s main drive, Damian hands him an already-opened breakfast bar.

It’s silent for several minutes, but as they reach the main gate, Damian says dryly: “I hope you are not planning to take me into the woods and put me to my death, Drake. Father would be most displeased.” For a moment, Tim almost thinks he’s serious, and he swivels to glare at his passenger. Damian is smirking. “Watch the road, please.” Tim brakes, and curses under his breath. He made a joke.

Once the vehicle is back under control, he clears his throat to break the awkward silence. “No, I’m not taking you out to the woods to murder you. We’re going to a nature preserve. It’s about an hour away, lot of lakes. Should be good birding there. If you look in the backpack again, there’re two pairs of binoculars, and my camera. Didn’t think I could fit your sketchbook without damaging it though.”

Damian is quiet for long enough that Tim glances at him in the rearview mirror. Damian’s face is… well, it’s hard to tell what exactly his expression is, but it doesn’t seem upset. Still, he waits, feeling a bit tense. Finally, Damian says, quietly, “This is… unexpected. Thank you.”

Tim almost quips, ‘What, no ‘Drake?’’ but he doesn’t. “You’re welcome.”

About halfway to the preserve, he turns on the radio. Damian mumbles about his supposedly terrible taste in music, but he doesn’t complain too loudly so Tim leaves it on. They get to the preserve around eight, park, and look at the trailhead map. Since this is Damian’s outing, Tim lets him pick where they’ll go. Unsurprisingly, he chooses the most challenging trail (not that any of them would be too rough for them). Tim takes the second pair of binoculars, and water bottle, out of the backpack. “You want them, you carry them.”

“Understandable,” Damian agrees. Then they set out.

The trail is an hour-long loop around. It’s the steepest one, and follows along the hillier side of the valley. About ten minutes in, they reach the first hill-crest. Tim hears a bird calling, and so calls a halt. He take out his binoculars and looks around. Damian does too. “There!” Tim whirls around to where his younger brother is pointing, and raises his binoculars.

The culprit is perched high up in a tree, its head swiveling back and forth watchfully. “Gray-speckled white belly, white-speckled brown wings. That’s a Cooper’s Hawk, I think.” He lets the binoculars hang by their straps and takes out his camera. Click. After a few more quiet moments, he asks, “Ready to keep going?” Damian nods.

Although they’re not high up enough that they can see everything, and the dense green foliage blocks some of the view, Tim can admit that it’s pretty impressive. They’ve reached the peak of what seems to be the largest hill, and as he looks around, he admires the scenery. Below them, the various bodies of water glimmer in the bright sunlight, reflecting the sky and clouds. There’s a slight breeze— which is quite welcome, as it’s already pretty hot even in the shade— so he can hear the tree leaves rustling, as well as bird-song.

Tim wipes his brow, and takes another swig from his water bottle. Beside him, Damian is quiet, seemingly content to take everything in. In the quiet, he pays closer attention to some of the bird-song. One in particular sounds familiar— kind of like a higher-pitched version of a car’s automatic locks engaging. Slowly, he lifts his binoculars up, and scans the trees.

“What are you looking for?”

Behind the binoculars, Tim smiles. “A Tufted Titmouse, I think.”

At first, there is only silence in response to his comment. Then comes a soft, derisive snort. “Surely you are joking. That cannot possibly be a real name.”

“Look it up if you don’t believe me,” Tim replies easily, letting go of his binoculars. Damian gives him a disbelieving look, but says nothing else. So he points to the tree-top straight out from them. “Right up there. It’s a small, white-bellied bird with a dark beak, light gray crest, and gray feathers. Also has orange splotches beneath its wings.”

Damian brings his binoculars up, and when he’s pointed in the right direction, Tim takes a picture.

“Wanna know a really bizarre bird name?”

Damian lets go of his binoculars and looks at him somewhat suspiciously. “Yes?”

“There’s a type of bird that live in the coastal regions of Central and South America— mostly around the Galápagos Islands. It’s called the Blue-footed Booby.”

Damian blinks and then— and then, he actually laughs. Just for a moment, but it’s enough. “I might believe that a bird could have ‘Titmouse’ in its name, but that? You must be joking,” he scoffs.

“Look it up, you’ll see.”

“I will,” Damian assures him.

They get back to the car just over an hour later— it wouldn’t have taken so long ordinarily, but they had stopped a lot to look at birds. Tim slides the backpack off his back and sets it on the hood. “Wait! Before you get in, I have something for you.”

Damian, who’s just about to slide into the car, pauses. “I thought this was my gift?”

Tim snorts, and keeps his tone amused rather than sad: “Nah. Dick would kill me if I did that. I got you these.” He unzips one of the small front pockets, and hands Damian the silver envelope inside. The youngest Wayne takes it, and slides into the car. Tim gets in too, and turns it on so that they can have some AC.

Damian carefully opens the envelope and skims the card before he takes out the printed receipt. “What is this?”

“A receipt for tickets to the Cape May Fall Festival, a birding convention hosted by New Jersey’s Audubon Society. It’s not until October, but I checked the dates, and it’s happening on a weekend. I cleared everything with Bruce already too, so we’re all set. Alfred’s coming with us, but not to the convention, I don’t think.”

Damian is silent for a moment, merely staring down at the piece of paper. Tim waits nervously. “I— thank you, Timothy. I look forward to it.”

He feels slightly jarred by the less-formal address, but pleasantly so. “You’re welcome, Damian. Happy birthday.”

The car-ride home is equally as silent as the trip there, but the silence is actually peaceful for once, and not angry, brooding, or tense, like it usually is between them. Only, Tim realizes: I don’t really remember the last time we had a major fight. It’s a startling thing to think, because, maybe, maybe that actually means that things have gotten better between them. Huh. He contemplates this most of the way back, just about until they reach the manor’s gate.

It’s just turned 10:30 a.m. when he parks, and they get out. Damian gives him an awkward nod as he leaves the garage, envelope held tightly. Tim gets their stuff out of the car, and goes to unpack the backpack.

“So what’s up with you and Damian?”

“Huh?” Tim asks, looking up from his laptop. They’re in his room, hanging out. Stephanie is supposed to be doing homework, but she gave up about an hour ago. He’s been switching between clearing out his W.E. inbox and updating some of the most recent case files.

“You. Damian. What is. Up? I heard from Jason, who heard via Dick complaining to him about it, that you and the Demon Brat are spending a lot of time together.”

He snorts. But the knowledge that Dick, apparently, is jealous is enough to get Tim to close his laptop. “That so? I’ll bet Jason was thrilled to be Dick’s confidant.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Yeah. That’s one word for it. Anyway— spill it, Tim. I wanna know everything.”

Tim stays silent for a moment, weighing his words. Steph looks at him insistently the entire time. “I followed your advice and talked to him. It helped,” he says simply.

Steph blinks, then gives him a dirty look. “If you’re not gonna tell me, you could have just said so.”

He rolls his eyes. “Just stay out of it— and don’t go gossiping with Jason, either.”

“Fiiiinnnneee. Spoilsport… I’m glad you two have gotten things worked out.”

“I am too.”

Jason is the next one to come to him, and Tim’s neither surprised, nor even angry that Stephanie probably talked to him, as long as she doesn’t tell Jason the details of their conversation— which he knows she won’t. They’re on patrol, in an odd echo to their first conversation about Tim and Damian’s relationship.

Red Robin has been investigating the city’s newest weapons-smuggling ring, so he’s by the docks when the quiet crunch of feet on asphalt alerts him to the presence of another person on his rooftop. Red Robin puts down his binoculars and turns around, relaxing slightly when he sees that it’s just Red Hood. “’sup, Replacement.”

“Red Hood.”

Jason settles into a crouch next to him. “What’re we looking at?”

Tim rolls his eyes. If you had read Bruce’s report, you’d already know. “Weapons-smuggling ring. Newly established, so for now we’re trying to see who they’ve reached out to before making a move.”

“Ah. Well in that case, I think your guys may be in touch with my guys— there have been some major new toys out on the streets lately.”

Tim carefully doesn’t grimace at Jason referring to guns as ‘toys’— he’s no Bruce, but he also has little appreciation for firearms— and replies, “I guess it’s a good thing you showed up then.”

“Yeah, guess so.” They fall silent, returning to their stakeout.

About 40 minutes later, it becomes apparent that things have shut down for the night, so they decide to go in— after much consideration (i.e. argument). “C’mon, Replacement. Nobody’s here, and they’re probably not coming. It’d be a waste not to go in and investigate.”

“But Batman—”

“Isn’t here. If it really gets your tights in that much of a twist, you can tell the uptight fucker that it was my idea. That I forced you.” Though he can’t see Red Hood’s face, Red Robin is sure that he’s wearing a sick, bitter grin. Tim stays silent after this, feeling uncertain. Hesitant.

Everyone knows that the elephant in the room— the elephant in the herd of elephants in the room— with regard to Jason and Bruce is that Jason, secretly, actually really cares what Bruce thinks about him. But he never admits to it, and will bite the head off, metaphorically speaking, of anyone who tries.

Tim sighs. I hope this doesn’t come back to bite me. “Alright, fine. We’ll go in. But I’m not telling B that you made me do it.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Speaking of relationships—” Tim groans internally. I should have known. “What’s up with you and Demon Brat? I have it on good intelligence that you two actually hang out now.” They’ve just finished their preliminary sweep of the warehouse to make sure it’s clear of any unwanted surprises. Namely people.

“Batgirl talked to you?” he asks.

“Batgirl talked to me,” Jason affirms.

He sighs. “I mean… we do, I suppose. But not, like, all the time.”

Jason snorts, as if to call him on his bullshit. “Right. That’s exactly what Batgirl told me. And Nightwing too.” Tim tenses momentarily, and, surprisingly, Jason backs off, holding his hands up. “Hey, relax, Replacement. I ain’t judging you. I just think it’s hilarious.”

Tim scowls. “Thanks, Hood.”

Jason stills, seeming to study him for a moment. When he speaks next, his voice is serious, and surprisingly earnest: “I mean it— I don’t give a fuck if you hang out with the mini-Bat or not. And if you want me to tell Dickface and Batgirl to knock off the gossip, I will.”

After a moment of hesitation, Tim nods. “Thanks, Hood,” he says again, this time with genuine thankfulness.

Red Hood nods casually. “Anytime. Now let’s go see what the fuck these guys have been getting up to, huh?”

Just as abruptly as it appeared, the heat disappears from Gotham— to the immense relief of everyone. Even the summer suits are far from comfortable, and never in his life has Tim been more envious of metas than when it’s hot and he has chase after a criminal. So when the heat disappears, the city as a whole breathes a sigh of relief, and the family does too.

The days grow shorter, mornings colder, and the birds fewer. Soon it begins raining again, and all that’s left for him and Damian to see are the gaggles of Canadian Geese which crowd the manor’s lawn as well as the few other species of birds which are non-migratory. By the end of September, the yard is a filled with muted shades of green, brown, or gray, and everything is quiet.

He puts down his camera, and tells Damian, “Well, that’s the end of the season,” feeling only a little surprised at how disappointed he is about it.

After that, things return to normal— well, normal as in before Tim discovered that he and Damian have this one thing in common. But it’s also not normal because they don’t argue as much now. Sure, they still bicker, and the kid gets on his nerves a lot, but… They’re nowhere near as hostile towards each other. No, mostly it’s that they don’t have the excuse of bird-watching to do things together anymore, and Tim’s not sure how to ask if Damian still wants to.

He wishes that he’d thought of what to do in this situation before he was in it. But he hadn’t, because Tim had still been caught-up in the weirdness that was him and his youngest brother actually getting along. So mostly he and Damian nod politely at one another as they pass each other in the manor. Occasionally, Damian will text him a photo of a drawing that he’s working on, and Tim will let him borrow his camera’s SD card so that he can print off a reference photo to do said drawings.

So things are peaceful, and a million times better than before, but it’s still awkward, and Tim hates it.

Quietly, he looks forward to Damian’s birthday trip to the birding convention.

The Monday before their trip, Alfred gets sick.

By mid-day Wednesday, he’s feeling a lot better, but none of them think that he’ll feel good enough to make the hours’ long drive, let alone spend three days in an unfamiliar location, keeping an eye on Tim and Damian— even if they don’t really need it. Besides, one thing both he and Damian have always agreed on is that Alfred is important to them. Neither want to risk the older man’s health.

So it’s with a sinking feeling that he reassures Alfred that yes, they can find somebody else to go with them; he’d hate to make the man feel guilty on top of everything else.

After they talk, Tim lets out a frustrated sigh. If he’d had more time, Tim would have argued with Bruce and tried to persuade him to let them go alone. But he doesn’t want to risk having no one else available if Bruce is stubborn about it. So he doesn’t go to Bruce. Instead, Tim calls Dick.

The weekend should be an enjoyable one, and he knows it; that’s what makes it worse—

Dick lets him drive for half of the way, which is a lot longer than he’s driven before (not counting that one time in the batmobile). They still have separate rooms; one for Dick, and one for him and Damian. The inn is as nice as promised, and their in-house café is charming and actually has really good coffee. The convention turns out to be interesting too. And Dick doesn’t even attend every event with them (after purchasing a last-minute ticket). “There’re only so many bird-related things I can take without going batty!” he says, with a wink. Tim just rolls his eyes. Yet he notices that when Dick is not there, his absence is palpable—

because it’s not enjoyable.

Dick does go to some of the events with them. He even buys them all matching t-shirts, and the dorky little hats with wings. He has them take a selfie in the entrance hall by the big convention banner, and Damian actually smiles a little in it as Dick crouches down between them, an arm thrown around ‘Little D’s’ shoulder. Every moment that Dick and Damian are having fun is another moment in which Tim can envision this becoming ‘one of their things’ more clearly.

On the evening of the second day, Dick posts the group selfie to Instagram, captioning it “A great weekend with my two favorite bird-brains!” and tags Tim (Damian is still too young to have a social media presence). Dick’s friends all coo over how cute they are, Jason and Stephanie write slightly-mocking comments, and Bruce just says “Looks like fun. Be good.” Tim’s stomach goes sour. He imagines what a photo of him and Damian alone would look like, and there are no smiles involved.

By the time they get home, he’s in a foul mood.

Bruce, who is waiting for them in the entryway, asks Tim as he storms by: “How was it?”

“Great,” Tim mutters. He doesn’t stop until he reaches his room, and shuts the door.

After the convention, Dick, as predicted, does seem set on getting into birding; or, if not exactly into it, then informed about it for Damian’s sake. Occasionally he’ll text them photos (varying in quality) of birds, asking for an identification. It makes things pretty awkward around the manor, at least for Tim and Damian. Damian, of course, loves Dick, but apparently he’s a little unsure about having the oldest Wayne offspring get involved in this. Even if neither of them actually say it, birding has become ‘their thing.’

When Nightwing comes back for a quick meet-up with Batman and joins them on patrol, he prattles on cheerfully about some of the nearby bird sanctuaries. “If you want, we can all visit one when I’m back in Gotham next,” he tells Damian over the comms. Tim stays pointedly silent, feeling annoyance simmer in his gut.

A few weeks later, Dick is back in Gotham, this time for a purely social visit. He talks excitedly about what’s been going on in his life recently, and asks Damian if he wants to go to the Zoo— he’s heard that California Condor exhibit is expecting their eggs to hatch sometime soon. In the wild, they wouldn’t be breeding at this time of year, but it’s different in captivity.

Damian actually looks hesitant for once, and his gaze flickers to Tim, who’s sitting a bit away from them, eating a bowl of cereal. “Would you like to go?”

The question breaks Tim out of his slump. He blinks. “What?”

“Would you like to go with us to the Zoo?” Damian repeats.

Dick meets his confused gaze over Damian’s head, looking slightly bashful and surprised. He clears his throat. “Sorry, Tim! I didn’t think that you’d be interested. But if you are, of course you’re welcome! The more the merrier,” he says brightly.

Tim does his best not to scowl too hard at the milk in his mostly-empty cereal bowl; he doesn’t want to risk curdling it. Nice save, Dick. “No, that’s alright. I’ve got other things to do. Have fun,” he replies evenly. Damian turns away quickly, before he can really make out his expression.

Dick’s eyes hesitate on his face for a second, before he shrugs. “Alright then. See you later.”

“Bye.”

Several hours later, there’s a knock at his door. Tim removes his earbuds, pauses the music, and tells Conner, who he’s been texting, that he’ll be right back. He strides over to the door, about ready to snap at whoever’s disturbing him— in this household, a closed door is a firm ‘do not disturb,’ except in the case of nightmares, and that’s only applicable to Bruce. He opens it, expression hard. It softens when he sees Damian, holding a large plastic bag with the Gotham Zoo logo on it.

“What?”

Now Damian looks uncertain. “The eggs did not hatch, yet Grayson insisted on purchasing souvenirs, and the gift shop was having a two-for-one sale on clothing items. He thought it might be nice if we procured something for you.”

Tim blinks, surprised, but not completely thrown out of his funk. If he hadn’t seen me at breakfast, I doubt Dick would’ve reminded Damian to get me anything, he thinks. “Oh. So what’d you get me?”

The plastic bag rustles as Damian digs something out of it. “This,” he replies, holding out a folded up shirt.

Tim takes it, and holds it up. The shirt is gray, and looks to be just about his size, if perhaps a little big. It’s got a stylized orange California Condor in the center of the chest, with “Gotham Zoo” printed underneath. He swallows, feeling a little off-balance. Tim is still upset, but less than he might’ve otherwise been. “Thanks,” he tells Damian, not as stiffly as he’d been planning to. He folds the shirt up, and walks back into his room, shutting the door.

As he does so, Damian is left standing in the hall behind him.

Tim’s sour mood only really starts to wear off towards the end of the week. But things become tense again when Dick returns that weekend. They come to a head when his oldest brother finds him in the cave. He’s practicing with his bo staff again.

“Can we talk?” Dick asks, standing at the edge of the mat.

Tim sets down his bo staff a little harder than necessary. He swallows, trying not to be mad at Dick. It’s not his fault that he’s jealous. It’s not Dick’s fault that he’s naturally social, and can fit in well in any situation— that he, naturally, has more fun bird-watching with Damian than Tim and Damian do. “About?” he asks. It comes out snappier than he means it to.

Dick raises an eyebrow but makes no comment on his tone. “I need to apologize.”

Tim groans. He doesn’t want to talk about this. “No, you don’t.”

Dick sighs. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Tim ignores him, and starts walking toward the showers; he’d been nearly done with the workout anyway. “It’s fine, Dick, really.”

A pointed silence. Then: “I made you uncomfortable.” No shit, Tim thinks. But he stays quiet. Dick sighs again. “I’m sorry.”

He stops, feeling oddly disappointed. I thought he was supposed to be the emotionally-intelligent one in the family. Then, shaking his head, Tim replies, “Okay.” He starts walking away again, but Dick steps in front of him, frowning. Tim huffs impatiently.

“Is it really? If there’s something else I can do to make it up to you, just let me know, and I’ll—”

“That’s not it, Dick. Just... stop. I don’t need you to include me in things just because you think I’m jealous.”

Dick blinks. “Are you jealous?”

Tim snaps. “No, I’m not jealous! I just wish that you didn’t have to get involved in everything that we— you and Damian already do so much together...” he cuts himself off, starts storming away, but pauses after a moment and turns halfway around. “Oh! And if you’re going to apologize for not including me in things, Dick, you could act like it’s less of an afterthought.”

Dick is absolutely silent behind him as Tim all but marches to the showers; neither of them notice Damian, frozen on the bottom of the cave steps, staring.

Bruce invites Tim to have lunch in his office on Friday. He shows up at noon, lunch box in hand. Although W.E. has a good cafeteria, Tim still prefers to bring his meals from home— that way, if he’s in a groove he doesn’t have to get up from his desk to find sustenance. Bruce smiles at him as he walks into the office, shutting the door behind him. Then he reaches down, revealing his own packed lunch. “Do you want coffee?”

“When don’t I want coffee?” Tim asks.

Bruce frowns for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admits wryly. They’ve had plenty of arguments about Tim’s caffeine-intake before, even if Tim thinks that it’s a bit hypocritical for Bruce to be talking to him about how much coffee he drinks. Bruce stands, walks to the small cabinet in the corner, pulls out a coffee mug, and sets it on top of the sideboard. The he takes out the coffeemaker, some pre-ground espresso, and starts the brewing process.

Tim watches quietly for a moment, listening to the subdued hiss as the coffeemaker begins to spit out liquid. Bruce returns to his desk and sits, opening up his lunchbox. Tim does too. Today Alfred’s given him a turkey lettuce wrap, accompanied by one of his family-favorite apple muffins. Bruce has one too, although his main course is a very green protein shake. Tim winces internally— he’d tried a smoothie once, on a dare from Jason and it had not been a pleasant experience.

“So.”

Tim blinks, breaking out of his reverie. Bruce is looking at him evenly, face neutral. It’s his I-have-something-to-say-but-don’t-know-how-to-say-it face. Which means that emotions are involved. Oh no. “Yes?” Tim asks neutrally, taking a bite of his wrap. If he acts calm, then maybe this— whatever it’s about— won’t be so bad.

The coffeemaker beeps, and Bruce rises smoothly to his feet. He says, back turned to Tim, “I noticed that you’ve been upset recently.” Tim swallows the bite of his lettuce wrap hard, and sets the rest down, suddenly not feeling very hungry. He scowls. Unbelievable, he thinks, feeling a surge of anger towards his oldest brother. I can’t believe Dick went to Bruce about this. “Tim?”

He sighs. “I’m fine, Bruce. It’s nothing.”

A soft, disbelieving snort. “That’s not what Dick said—” Bruce returns with a steaming mug of coffee, which he sets down in front of Tim. Then he gives his son a quelling stare as Tim opens his mouth to interrupt. “And that’s not what I’ve noticed either. What happened?”

Tim blinks, feeling uncomfortably scrutinized. He swallows. “It’s stupid…”

Bruce sighs. “I doubt that it’s stupid, Tim; you’re far more emotionally-intelligent than I am. And as someone wise once told me, feelings aren’t about logic— they aren’t rational. You just have to let yourself experience them.”

He smiles, feeling slightly amused despite the situation. “Clark?”

“No, Diana. Now try again,” Bruce says dryly.

Tim takes a deep breath. Maybe it will be good to tell him. “It’s because of Damian.” Bruce’s expression goes carefully blank, and he feels a flash of bitterness. He knows that Bruce is put in a very difficult position every time he and Damian fight, he knows that. And Damian is young, still a kid really, so it makes sense for Bruce to be more concerned about his actual son him, but… it still hurts. And that look brings up memoires.

“I have noticed that things have been… different lately, yes.”

He nearly laughs. You and the rest of the family. “Yeah, they have— not bad different, either.” Bruce’s expression softens. “We’ve actually been getting along, which is new…” Tim takes a deep breath. “But then, after we went to the convention, Dick started tagging along, and trying to get involved—”

“With birding,” Bruce says suddenly. It’s not quite a question, but close enough to one.

“Yeah, birding. Damian’s not the only one who enjoys it; that’s why I wanted to go with him to the convention.” Bruce nods, looking as if things are finally starting to come together. “Anyway, you know how Dick is. He gets excited about everything, and I felt…” Tim trails off.

I felt left out. Neglected. Forgotten. Overlooked. Jealous. He knows that he’s a part of the family. He knows that. But even now, it’s still a bit of a sore subject. He’ll never regret doing what he did to get here, but… Tim knows that his is not the same path into the family as Dick or Jason’s. Damian’s arrival had only made that more apparent. Bruce hums, and Tim remembers where he is.

He takes another bite of his long-forgotten lunch. The silence lingers.

After a long moment, Tim looks up, and sees Bruce glancing thoughtfully back. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Tim, you know that I— that you’re—”

He snorts, feeling relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yeah, I know. It’s just… sometimes hard to remember that.”

Bruce’s expression darkens for a moment, and he lets out a long exhale. He looks guilty. “I’m sorry that we haven’t done more together recently, Tim. If you want, I can look at my schedule and we can plan something.”

He smiles, feeling both happy and uncomfortable. “I’d like that. But this is not about you, Bruce. I’ve just got to get over my—”

“I was an only child who was, in hindsight, embarrassingly clingy and overly attached to his parental-figure,” Bruce says bluntly. “There’s nothing wrong with how you’re feeling.”

Tim hesitates, feeling thrown by Bruce’s response. “… Oh.” Well, when you put it that way... He supposes that Bruce does know what he’s talking about.

Bruce clears his throat, pulling Tim from his thoughts once more. “I can talk to Dick if you want,” he offers.

Tim considers the offer for a moment. It’s tempting, to have Bruce magically solve all his issues, but Tim’s mature enough to deal with his own problems. Not to mention, he doesn’t want to risk Bruce making things worse, as he has an unfortunate penchant to when it comes to emotional issues, even if he doesn’t mean to. “No, I should probably talk to him myself. Thanks though.”

Bruce looks relieved, and offers Tim a reassuring smile. “Now that that’s settled,” he glances down at his own untouched shake, then at Tim’s half-eaten wrap, “we should probably eat our lunch.”

“Yeah, probably,” Tim agrees. Not everything has been worked out, but he feels a lot better, having talked things out with someone.

By the time Damian comes to talk to him, all the trees have lost most, if not all, of their leaves. All the birds that migrate have left, and those that stayed are rarely seen, too busy preparing for the harsh, bitter months to come. There hasn’t been any snow yet, but with the cold making itself apparent (he’d had to break out a heavier cape last night on patrol) it’s only a matter of time.

It’s late when it happens— around 2 a.m.. Tim is sitting on his bed, scrolling through Twitter, one earbud in, blasting music, when he hears a light knock. At first, he thinks that he must be hearing things, but then it happens again. Tim pauses the music, removes the earbud, and sets down his phone. When he opens the door to see Damian, wearing his pajamas, he blinks. Half-worried that something’s happened, Tim presses: “What is it?”

Damian blinks, and seems to take in his alarm. He scowls. “Nothing is wrong, Timothy. May I come in?”

Feeling very bemused, Tim agrees: “Alright.”

Damian shuts the door behind himself, and looks around for a good (i.e. clean) place to sit. There isn’t really one, as Tim’s armchair is currently covered in a to-be-folded pile of laundry. So, quietly, the youngest Wayne pulls out his desk chair. As he does, Tim sees his gaze drawn to the framed drawing of the Cedar Waxwing. Damian hesitates for a (telling) moment, then sits. So Tim returns to his bed and follows suit.

After an awkward moment, he asks, “So what’s this about?”

As Damian’s expression flickers between uncertainty and a familiar careful blankness (he inherits it from Bruce), Tim’s worry increases. It sharpens when Damian finally looks up and says bluntly, “I overheard your and Grayson’s… discussion in the cave.”

Tim swallows. Damn it. “I— uh… You did?”

Damian nods calmly. “Yes.”

“Well, I—”

“I talked to him about it, and made it perfectly clear that if he has no real interest in bird-watching he does not need to pretend otherwise for my sake. We already have many activities which we enjoy alike. He got the message.”

Tim blinks, feeling genuinely thrown. He almost says, ‘You told Dick that you didn’t want to hang out with him?’ but he doesn’t. This is already unprecedented, and he doesn’t want to risk pissing off Damian somehow, or making him reconsider his actions. “Oh,” he says instead. It’s open-ended enough that if his brother wants to explain further, he can.

But Damian seems to hear his unsaid statement anyway. He purses his lips, and looks away for a moment, as if considering his next words. It’s rather Bruce-like of him. Tim stays silent.

Eventually, Damian looks up, gaze surprisingly earnest. He takes a breath in. “I know you think that you are… an outlier because of how you joined this family. Father chose Grayson, and Todd. You… for lack of a better term, found him. And I—” Damian abruptly cuts himself off. ‘I was almost-literally dropped on his doorstep,’ Tim supplies mentally. He sighs.

“Stephanie too.” Damian pulls a face, and he frowns. “You know it’s true. She’s worked just as hard as you or I have to get where she is,” Tim reprimands.

Damian stops grimacing and gives him a short, conciliatory nod. “I… did not mean to imply that Brown is inferior, but you must admit that her situation is different.”

Tim hesitates for a moment. You probably did, he thinks. But at least Damian isn’t openly mocking Steph— hasn’t done so, now that he thinks about it, in months. And he is not entirely incorrect in pointing out that Steph’s relationship to Bruce, to the rest of them, is different. “Well, you’re not wrong,” he admits.

Damian nods, then continues: “My point being that we have more similarities, from our respective positions, than the others do.”

He frowns. “You’re saying that we have something in common.” That our something in common is not being chosen, having to find our place. He doesn’t know whether to feel more surprised at the insightfulness of the observation, Damian’s clear attempt to reach out to him, or depressed that the kid thinks that he— Bruce’s only biological child— is an outsider in the way that Tim is.

“Yes. Do not forget it.” Damian gives him a warning look, then stands up. “It is late, and Father will be disappointed if he discovers that I am not in bed. Good night, Drake.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true... Good night, Damian.” Feeling very confused, but not entirely unhappy, Tim watches him go.

Tim doesn’t get to talk to Dick until he comes home for Thanksgiving. Being a social worker in Blüdhaven is always difficult, but even more so around the holiday season as people go out of town. In addition to his regular casework, Dick tries to brighten the spirits of the people he works with around this time of the year.

After talking to Bruce and Damian, Tim feels a lot better. But his eldest brother probably doesn’t know that. So when he sees Tim, Dick looks somewhat apprehensive. “Can I talk to you, Tim?” he asks.

“Sure.”

They head off to one of the less-used studies, and sit across from each other in the armchairs.

Both of them remain silent, until Dick sighs, and starts the conversation. “Damian talked to me, and I… just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I was intruding on your guys’ thing— didn’t even think to consider that you two might have a thing. So clearly I made some assumptions that I shouldn’t have.”

Tim ponders Dick’s serious expression for a second, then nods.

“I should probably apologize as well. Damian talked to me too. And so did Bruce. Looking back, I… didn’t handle things as well as I could have. I was jealous because, well— you know. Damian and I haven’t always… gotten along, so I was feeling insecure about things, and you two have always gotten along so well. I’ll try to remember to actually talk to you in the future.”

Dick smiles. “I’ll find other stuff to do with Damian. Sound alright?”

Tim nods. They fall silent again.

“So we’re good now?” Dick asks eventually.

Tim rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we’re good.”

Dick grins, and opens his arms for a hug.

A few weeks before Christmas, Bruce pulls him aside and takes him to his study.

“What is it?” Tim asks as he sits down. Bruce sighs, sounding tired both and frustrated. Tim arches an eyebrow. Did something happen at W.E.? It’s the only explanation Tim can come up with, as everything else in their lives has been going smoothly enough recently. So he’s completely thrown by Bruce’s request.

“Can you help me come up with a Christmas present for Damian?” he asks.

Tim blinks. “Shouldn’t you be asking Dick that?”

Bruce looks at him evenly. “I asked you.”

“Okay,” Tim agrees hesitantly.

Bruce must sense his continued confusion, because he adds, “Damian seemed to really like your birthday present.”

“Oh.” Tim frowns thoughtfully, trying to think of a gift that Damian would like which won’t interfere with his plans. In a flash of inspiration, he remembers their rooftop conversation from months ago. “He told me that he likes birds of prey. Apparently Ra’s used to keep some when he was little.”

Bruce apparently picks up on the ‘used to,’ and his expression darkens for a moment. He can probably guess that whatever happened to those birds wasn’t good. “I see. Thank you, Tim.”

He stands. “No problem.”

Bruce ends up donating $20,000 to the Audubon Society’s Wildlife Care Center foundation in Damian’s honor, and buys him a Raptors and Falcons of North America calendar to go with it. “I— if you don’t like it, I can get you something else, Damian,” he says awkwardly at his youngest son’s silence.

Damian, who’s been staring blankly at the check— previously tucked under the calendar’s cover page in an envelope— blinks slowly, and looks up. He swallows, then says quietly, “That is not necessary, Father. This is… more than acceptable. Thank you.”

Bruce smiles softly down at him. “I’m glad you like it.”

Tim gets Damian a copy of The Birder’s Bible: Advanced Edition and a set of fancy colored pencils— which he gives to Damian privately after the main gifts have all been opened. Damian looks quietly pleased as he opens the presents. “Thank you, Timothy,” he says, as he inspects the art supplies later. “These will be quite useful.”

“I’m glad,” he replies genuinely.

This time, Damian actually does get him a gift card to the Nikon store.

When he returns to his room later, Tim finds a small watercolor of two American Robins waiting for him on his desk.

Of course, there are very few birds to see outside in the dead of winter. Even if there were, Tim’s not sure that he’d want to brave the cold and the snow to see them. But, surprisingly, Damian still wants to do stuff with him. “Will you help me identify this bird?” he asks occasionally, pointing to an unlabeled photo in one of his books.

“Sure,” Tim always agrees.

Several days before the end of January, Damian knocks on his door, holding his sketchbook, and glancing around furtively. Tim quickly lets him in, and shuts the door. He crosses his arms and quirks a brow, curious. “Yes?”

“I have an idea for Father’s birthday present,” Damian says, striding over to Tim’s desk and setting down his sketchbook. “It requires your assistance.”

Tim hesitates, once again surprised. “What did you have in mind?” he inquires cautiously, walking over to Damian’s side. He looks down at the sketchbook and sees that his brother has flipped to some completed drawings— drawings that were only sketches the last time he saw them.

“I was thinking of showing Father the results of my Ornithological study.”

Tim’s brow furrows more. “You mean like a photobook?”

Damian looks up from the page, thoughtful gleam in his eye. “Yes, something of the sort. But I do not believe that it would be complete without being presented beside an accurate basis of comparison for my work.”

Tim blinks. “You mean— you want to make a photobook for Bruce with your drawings and my photos?”

Damian nods. “Exactly. However, I neither possess the necessary photographic nor technical skills required to produce such a book. You have both.”

“Alright,” Tim agrees. “We’ll see what we can do.”

The first step is compiling the yet-unnamed book’s contents. They sort through Tim’s photos and decide which ones they’ll use. Then Damian finds the corresponding artwork and decides if it’s ready to be photographed. He makes a pile of drawings which he’s not quite satisfied with, and gives the acceptable ones to Tim to process. Once Tim’s digitized them, he pulls the results up on his laptop and shows Damian how to adjust the saturation and brightness, among other things, so that he can present his work accurately.

After they’ve finished with the drawings, Damian gathers up the remaining sketches, and says, “I will complete these and return once I have done so.”

“I’ll email you the reference photos and start editing my side of things,” Tim tells him.

Some of the photos are better than others, but after Tim’s fiddled around in Photoshop and used some other software, he’s happy with the results. He sends Damian the requested pictures, then begins researching different photobook printing companies to streamline the process when they’re ready to put it all together.

Several weeks later, they reconvene. Damian reveals the finished drawings, which are quite impressive.

“These are really good, Damian,” he says.

His brother nods stiffly. “I had appropriately-detailed reference material to work with.”

In the end, they choose a rectangular hardback book, with black, glossy paper. Each page has two images: Tim’s photograph on the right, and Damian’s drawing on the left. In the top middle of each page is the species name in white text. They decide to call it An Ornithological Study of Wayne Manor. Beneath this, they print “By Timothy Drake-Wayne and Damian Wayne al Ghul.” On the inside of the front cover, Tim writes, “Happy birthday, Bruce” and they both sign their names.

Feeling excited, and slightly nervous, Tim places the order. “Should be here about a week before his birthday,” he tells Damian.

The book arrives exactly on time, and Tim rushes to take the package from Alfred, who arches an eyebrow inquiringly at him.

“Bruce’s birthday present,” Tim explains.

“Ah, I see,” Alfred replies.

“It’s perfect.”

“I agree that this project has turned out quite successfully,” Damian agrees. He actually sounds pleased.

“Bruce is going to love it,” Tim reassures him anyway.

They have a celebratory luncheon with Brucie Wayne’s society ‘friends,’ and then a more intimate birthday dinner for the others— including most of the league. After everyone leaves, they head for the living room to watch Bruce open his presents. Damian informs him quietly that he placed their gift on the very bottom of the pile.

Tim, despite himself, feels nervous. Rationally, he knows that Bruce will love their gift— he knows that. But he still can’t quite stop himself from worrying about it. So he doesn’t exactly pay attention to the gift unwrapping, and subsequently misses out on who exactly gave Bruce what. Damian, sitting on the couch next to Dick, looks equally nervous.

Finally, Bruce reaches their package, briefly glancing at the tag even though he’s already opened everything else. “From Tim and Damian,” he reads aloud, arching a brow. He makes eye contact with both of them. In his peripheral vision, Tim observes that everyone else looks equally surprised.

“Well that’s certainly unexpected,” Jason mutters. Dick glares sharply, and elbows him.

Bruce meticulously unwraps the book, and then stares blankly at the cover.

After a long, agonizing moment, he opens it, reads the inscription, and then flips through the rest of it. The whole time, he looks stiff and uncomfortable: lips pursed, and brow furrowed. A few years ago, Tim might have been worried that he didn’t like the present, but now he knows different. Bruce is stiff because he’s feeling overwhelmed, and trying not to reveal how emotional he is. All the others are hovering in various stages of nearness, attempting to sneak a peak. Bruce ignores them, fully engaged in the pages before him.

When he looks up, his eyes are slightly glassy. He swallows thickly. Oh, Tim thinks surprised. He likes it. He really likes it. “You and Damian made this?” Bruce asks softly.

Tim nods, feeling proud and slightly uncomfortable now that everyone’s attention is on him. Damian stares at him from the corner next to Bruce’s chair where he’s moved. “Yeah, we did— but it was Damian’s idea. I just put everything together.”

Bruce smiles softly, and his head swivels so he can take in both of them. “I— this is wonderful, boys. Really, I’m quite impressed. Thank you.”

Damian nods stiffly, cheeks slightly red. “Happy birthday, Father.”

“Happy birthday, Bruce,” Tim echoes.

The room goes silent for a minute. Then Dick clears his throat. “Well I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d sure like to see that book!” The others, apparently, are in agreement if the clamor that breaks out afterward is anything to go by. As everyone moves even closer to Bruce, oohing and ahing as he carefully flips through the book again, Tim smiles, and looks up.

Damian— still standing in his corner— meets his gaze, and smiles back.