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crowned-aeris · 2 months

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The preqel to my Reverse Robins Wingfic; aka "To Brace Upon Benign Feathers"

Its from tim’s POV, because he’s my pookie and I love him very much. it also briefly switches to bruce’s POV toward the end, so i hope it’s not too jarring

Also: Warning for self harm, ig. Y’know how some species of birds pluck their feathers when they’re stressed? that’s what Tim does

===

Tim watched; his eyes glimmered with an awe-struck light as Batman and his Shadow soared through the sky. The pair weaved through the air, their dark-clothed forms momentarily blotting out the streetlight as they descended upon the cluster of criminals.

The edge of Shadow's blade flashed as a criminal's scarlet blood spilled across the ground. The wounds were shallow and non-lethal, but Tim still captured Batman's disapproving look.

"Tt," Shadow scoffed before flaring out his dyed wings, the criminals shrieking before scrambling away from the teen, only to end up in the grasp of the looming Batman.

Tim raised his camera and snapped a photo, his teeth digging into his bottom lip to silence his excited hums.

Click.

Batman tied the criminals together before leaving them on the side of the road and contacting the GCPD. Shadow glared at the criminals, "Tt. In the League, dissenters would have their wings sawed off as a warning to other potential traitors."

The criminals stared at the Bat with wide, fearful, and pleading eyes. Tim winced, ruffling his still-fresh flight feathers.

"But we aren't in the League," Batman sighed. It sounded like the pair had had this conversation multiple times, and Tim wouldn't doubt it.

Shadow narrowed his eyes behind the domino mask, pivoting before launching himself onto the roof Tim was on. The falcon stifled an undignified squeak before ducking behind the HVAC unit. The sound of heavy wingbeats filled the air as Batman chased after his son.

"Everything would be easier if you adopted the League's teachings as Mother suggested," Shadow growled, unconsciously ruffling his wings in a manner glaringly similar to Batman's.

"We've been over this," Batman sighed, sounding more frustrated than ever, "Talia left you with me. You're not in the League anymore, D- Shadow. You need to follow my rules, which means no killing. No Maiming. And no lethal use whatsoever."

Shadow hissed in irritation, but he didn't bother to argue.

Tim hummed. What was Batman about to say?

As the fledgling watched the pair leap off the roof to continue their patrol, he prepared to procure a list of names that began with "D."

-----

How likely were Batman and Shadow to be Bruce and Damian Wayne?

It would make sense...

Oh god, his neighbors were the Batman and the Shadow! Wow, that... actually made sense.

Huh… that’s so cool.

-----

This... was decidedly less cool...

Tim stared at the social worker, his expression lax with shock. In his chest, Tim's heart jack-rabbited against his ribcage, beating out an incredulous tone that filled him with disbelief as dread pooled in his gut.

His parents had died in a plane accident while on a plane back from Taiwan. Tim had talked to them last night, and his mom had even said he'd bring back a souvenir and some snacks for Tim to try out and- and-

"Sorry, son," the man said, but he didn't look too sorry. In fact, he looked guilty.

It took everything in him to force his disposition to remain calm and collected. He was a Drake, and Tim would be hard-pressed before he demolished the castle his mother and father had built brick-by-brick that was their reputation. He will not allow the Drake Name to fall into ruin just because he was careless.

"Will I be going into the system?" Tim asked, feeling his claws pick against the skin of his palms. His parents hadn't even seen his first flight... and now they never will.

The man pressed his wings tighter against his body; he was uncomfortable, unsure, and way out of his depth. That was... suspicious... shouldn't social workers try to calm children rather than agitate them further? This one didn't seem trained, either.

"What will happen to me, Mister?" Tim asked, hitching his wings up and drawing in his shoulders to appear smaller. The falcon tilted his head down and forced his eyes to water before gazing up at the man through lashes that glimmered with tears. Tim was smaller than most other kids his age; he would use that to his advantage.

The man's feathers bristled, and he took a half-step back. Tim pushed out a pathetic-sounding chirp. He remembers his mother's lessons on the intricacies of body language, and Tim will not allow himself to forget.

Tim chirped again. From how he reacted, the man seemed familiar with the chicklet calls, so he could've been a father, teacher, or just someone around kids enough to be swayed by a random kid's chirps.

To really sell the "hapless, pathetic, hopeless chick act," Tim sniffed and allowed the beginnings of pitiful sobs to fall from his lips.

"You know what, fuck this!" the man shouted before turning tail and striding down the stairs. Once he was out of sight, Tim sobered and wiped the tears from his cheeks, uncertainty brewing in his chest.

The falcon relaxed his wings and draped them over his shoulder like a cape. He struggled to open the door, but Tim eventually struggled his way in. With a deep breath, Tim steeled himself, grabbed his mother's conditioner, and shuffled into his parents' bathroom.

As the days blinked past, Tim noticed his appetite waning. Mrs. Mac, the heron house-keeper, had stopped coming over after Tim had told her about his parents' death. She'd said something about not working if she wasn't paid, and then she'd hung up.

He was sitting at the base of his parent's Alaskan king bed, the one they've barely used, his hands gently running through his plumage before plucking out some feathers. Tim sees the blood rush from where the sensitive, newly-grown feather was yanked. The blood joined the other trails and pooled onto the floor. He released the feather in his hand and watched it gently drift to join the other gray-black fluff on the hardwood floor.

Tim reached for another clump of feathers, only to have the action interrupted by a hand that eclipsed his own. The hand gently pushed Tim's bloodied hands away from his wings, and he couldn't find the energy to resist. A soothing croon and low churring rumbled through Tim's chest and settled a roiling feeling he didn't know he had. The fledgling answered with a weak chirp, and Tim was swept into someone's arms. The low vibration continued to rumble through his chest, and Tim allowed his eyes to slip shut and his body to fall boneless.

("-long has been there? He's practically skin and bones!"

"They've been dead for at least a week now... He's seven."

"Can't we just hand him to the social services?"

"Damian..."

"Fine!")

When Tim wakes up, he is somewhere different. His wings felt stiff like they were covered or wrapped with something. He opened his eyes, and his theory was confirmed. White bandages made specifically for wings were applied to the patches of missing feathers, and a glance around the room confirmed that he was somewhere completely foreign.

With a twist of his lip, Tim forced his wings shut, ignoring the protesting pain of the bandages tugging against his feathers before shoving himself against the corner. The wall was cool against his skin, and Tim twisted onto his stomach and wedged himself farther into the corner.

A few minutes later, the door to the room creaked open, washing the box with warm light.

"Master Timothy, are you awake?" a British voice asked.

Tim didn't respond.

The door closed, and the light vanished.

Not even fifteen seconds later, the door opened again, and someone entered. Their footsteps were solid against the wooden floor. Tim didn't bother with looking up.

"Hey," Bruce Wayne said in a low yet gentle voice. The bed shifted under the man's weight, "I know you're awake."

No response.

"Damian used to do the same thing, you know," Bruce said, his tone light and careful, "he'd pretend that he was asleep so he wouldn't have to get up for school. He was close to his mother, and when he moved in with me, Damian had a rough time being away from her."

The silence was filled only by their soft breaths.

"When was the last time you've eaten?" Bruce Wayne asked.

Tim did not respond.

"...Is it alright if I touch you?"

The fledgling did not respond. Timothy was small, especially for a fledgling, and Bruce found it difficult not to sweep him under his wing.

The harpy eagle carefully kept his claws tucked against his palms before gently lifting Tim from the corner he'd wedged into. After a few seconds of deliberate maneuvering, Bruce has Tim slumped against his chest, the fledgling limp and his wings drooping. If it wasn't for his lethargic blinks and barely-there breaths, Bruce would've thought that he'd died.

When he entered the dining room, Damian was sitting at the dinner table with a furious expression as he addressed a blank-faced Alfred.

"Why hasn't Father arrived yet?" Damian demanded, his voice just shy of a growl.

"Master Bruce had something he needed to see to," Alfred responded, "he will join you shortly, Master Damian; patience is a virtue."

Damian seethed, but he'd learned better than to disobey the barn owl. Bruce grunted a greeting as he sat beside Alfred's spot and directly in front of Damian. But as he sat Tim on the chair to his left, Damian caught Bruce's eye with a furious expression.

"Why is he here? Damian hissed, eyes narrowed as Alfred returned with plates of food.

Bruce gave a weary exhale. The noise wasn't quite a sigh, but it was just about. "Damian..."

"I do not wish to be replaced by a catatonic- rat!" his son spat, pushing back the chair with the harsh sound of wood scraping against wood as he leaped to his feet. The fledgling flared open his wings and slammed his palms on the table, causing the dishes to rattle and shake dangerously.

"Son-"

"You obviously don't view me as your son," Damian sneered, eyeing Tim with a positively venomous expression.

Bruce held back a frustrated hiss. Damian's mule-headedness was undoubtedly Talia's fault. No way in hell was Bruce this stubborn when he was a teenager. "Damian, you are not being replaced."

"Then what in the world do you call this?" Damian jabbed a finger in Tim's direction.

Alfred, unbothered, made a crooning noise at Tim, and the fledgling began to mechanically start gently sipping at the soup the butler had made.

""This,"" Bruce returned, "is a fledgling who'd lost his parents and was almost kidnapped. Damian, you are being unreasonable-"

His son snapped his wings shut, his feathers bristling in an offended fashion, "Then why haven't you snatched up the other children who have lost their parents? Answer that, Father. There are other younger chicks on the streets of Gotham, yet I don't see them bounding around right now!"

"Timothy doesn't have a next-of-kin, and he was plucking," Bruce was fighting desperately not to raise his voice at Damian. From experience, it was only going to make him fight harder. Talia was the exact same...

"And that hardly narrows down the other children on the streets of Gotham! What makes him so different that you resorted to bringing an outsider into OUR HOME!" Damian borderline screamed before his voice dropped to a whispered hiss, "Mother would disapprove."

Bruce bit back the retort that clung to the tip of his tongue. He decidedly didn't say, "Then good thing she's not here"; "She's never not disapproving something or another"; "What's one more tick against my record"; "This manor is owned by Bruce Wayne, not Talia Al Ghul"; and the countless other responses that would be inappropriate for this situation.

But what he does say, in retrospect, probably should've stayed unsaid as well.

"Don't bring Talia into this."

The two harpy eagles stared off in a silent battle of wills that ended in a draw when Tim slowly blinked himself into reality. His breathing shifted slightly, and his gauze-covered wings tucked closer to his back.

"Of course, you'd say that," Damian's voice dropped to a low growl, "you never did care for Mother, did you?"

"Damian!" Bruce snapped, his hands clenching on the table.

"You never wanted me- don't you dare deny it! You are seeking to replace me!" Damian spat, his claws digging into the wood of the vintage table. Alfred made a disapproving trill, and the fledgling instantly released his grip.

"If you'd just listen to me," Bruce grounded out, but Damian steamrolled over him.

"There is nothing to listen to, Father. You've made your stance clear as-"

"You're acting like a child," Tim huffed, staring into Damian's eyes with no shortage of defiance. The fledgling's wings were eerily still and unexpressive. Although it was relieving to see Timothy out of his depressive state, Bruce only wished it had happened while Damian wasn’t in one of his, to put it lightly, moods.

"Excuse me?" Damian growled, his tone dangerously still. Unlike many other people, Damian had zero reservations about harming a younger person.

Tim's hands clenched slightly before relaxing, but his expression remained bored and lax. Where did their son know how to mask so well? It was... concerning.

"You complain about Bruce not caring for you, but he still took you in even though Talia left you at his doorstep. If he didn't want you or didn't care for you, he would've placed you somewhere else, or he could've also handed you back to Talia."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Damian hissed. Bruce stood up to try and defuse the situation.

"You don't either!" Tim hissed, but it lacked the threatening rattle that someone truly enraged would possess, "You're entitled, conceited, and you can't see beyond your over-inflated ego!"

Damian flared his wings and pounced across the table. Bruce cursed under his breath as he lunged forward, crashing into his son in a whirlwind of wings and thrashing feathers. Damian bit into Bruce's forearm, and he frowned as his son's needle-like fangs ripped into his skin and his atavistic claw slashed inches away from Bruce's neck.

Alfred had grabbed Tim and swept the fledgling away to someplace more secure, and Bruce wrestled Damian off the table and onto the floor.

"DAMIAN!" Bruce shouted, frustration dripping off every word, "We do not. Hurt. Chicks."

"THEN WHY ARE YOU HURTING ME?!" Damian screamed, and Bruce instinctively lightened his grasp on Damian's limbs.

His son took that chance and twisted in Bruce's grasp, thrashing his wings to loosen Bruce's grip before lunging for his throat. Bruce ducked before pinning Damian against the ground, a firm grip on the back of the fledgling's neck and his wings forced against the ground.

Bruce narrowed his eyes, waiting for Damian to stop thrashing before speaking, "Tonight, Batman will be going out alone."

Damian froze.

"You can't do that!" he protested. Anger blazed brightly in his eyes as his thrashing continued. "You- You can't bench me! You need me- Father! Father, please! Batman needs- he needs Shadow! You need-"

"You need to go to your room," Bruce interrupted. "Batman did fine in his years before Shadow arrived, so I don't see why Batman can't go back out on his own."

Damian opened his mouth, probably to argue some more, but Bruce cut him off with a growl, "I will allow you back out when you learn how to behave yourself. I am disappointed, Damian. You should know better."

#tim drake #batman #fanfic #batfamily #bruce wayne #damian wayne #reverse robins #wing fic #world building #batfam #feral damian #angry damian wayne #canon?#who’s canon? Idk a canon #they’ll get along….#eventually #Fic: to brace upon benign feathers

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