Chapter Text
It starts with the exhibit.
The whole family goes. They’re a little late—Waynes of all flavors are always late, it seems—but they do get there with plenty of time left to explore. Plenty of time to find Damian’s large showcase, with more space and more pieces than anyone else.
He didn’t look surprised to see them, per se, but he also didn’t look smug. Maybe…relieved.
Well, in any case. They’re here. Damian had left the manor early, demanding that not even Dick arrive with him. Tim thinks it was a sort of test, however soft and childish it seems. Like letting Dick out of an obligation, to see if he would still come. To see if he really wanted to. And he clearly had; Dick was first through the door, speeding by Bruce’s side, looking through the exhibit with shining eyes as they landed on Damian.
Damian, who’d been glaring at nothing, arms behind his back, hiding the twist of his fingers that Tim knows he does when he’s nervous. Damian, seeing them rushing for him, his face not brightening, not judging, just…relaxing. Shoulders slumping, just a bit, as if he’d been holding them too tight without knowing.
Dick and Bruce reached him first, then Cass and Alfred. Duke, Tim, Jason, and Steph all lazily followed, browsing the art on the way. When they finally arrived at Damian’s showcase, the boy still wasn’t smiling but it was something very close. Like he had to work to swallow it. Tim warmed, because Damian looked more like a kid than he usually did. Of course he would, surrounded by his classmates and other school district students, of whom he was one of the youngest.
Looking at the varieties of artwork that surrounded them, then at last reaching his brother’s, Tim found himself shocked that Damian’s work had only been selected for something so small. Surely there was some sort of higher level competition for this? His paintings were leagues ahead of everyone else, the careful strokes and colors making everyone else’s pieces look like they’d been completed in the dark.
“It’s beautiful,” Dick said on a soft exhale as he looked at a watercolor of Gotham’s skyline from above one of its busy streets, voice surprised because he hadn’t seen it yet. None of them had. Damian had been very adamant that no-one look at any of the pieces he planned to enter into the showcase. Even before that, he’d always been secretive, protective over them; getting the chance to look at anything he created was always a rare opportunity.
Damian rolled his eyes. “That is easily the worst of them,” he frowned.
“That’s stupid,” Jason mumbled, eyes frantically looking between each of Damian’s pieces. “These are perfect.”
Damian’s eyes go wide, a reaction he can’t quite hide in time. Tim smiled as the rest of the family began to sing their praises, which only made Damian go more and more red.
“Oh, oh, Dick!” Tim exclaimed, “This is you!” It’s a portrait, a shadow of a man in an empty room, the only light casting it coming from the busy street outside. Tim had never seen anything like it.
Isn’t this what museums are for?
“How could you possibly know that?” Damian demanded, stepping closer, eyes glancing over his work like it had changed. “I was careful not to include any recognizable details of him.” Tim looked over it again too, realizing belatedly that the man was indeed too dark to see, more an outline than anything else. But it was so vivid, so perfectly captured, that it could be a photograph, and Tim knows a photo of his brother when he sees one. He told Damian this, only for the boy to huff, and reassure that it is not a photo. He proved this by going into detail on which brushes he used and how he chose the colors and maybe seven minutes in, Tim realized that Damian is opening up in a way he so rarely does, especially to him. The family always counted themselves lucky when Damian felt proud enough of a piece to show them; to Tim’s knowledge, they had never heard his artistic process, or told his thoughts on his own art beyond a simple judgement.
It felt oddly like a gift, and Tim was enraptured by his speech. When Damian finished talking, looking more embarrassed than anything else, Tim just nodded seriously, and pointed to the work next to it. “What about this one?”
Damian launched into another rant, then another and another. Jason and Steph wandered off somewhere through explanation number four, and Duke disappeared about five minutes after that. Several onlookers did the opposite, inching closer to hear more. But Damian never seemed to mind either way. In fact, he looked almost exclusively at Tim, gauging only his face for reactions.
Eventually all thirteen of his pieces were accounted for, and Tim was nearly out of follow-up questions. He stepped back, a little, which at last gave Bruce more room to look closer, lean into the paintings with a soft look on his face. Damian monitored him carefully, that glare from earlier returning to his face at last.
“When can we have them?” He asked at last. “The school doesn’t get to keep them, right?”
“You…want them?” Damian questioned carefully, with something that sounded a lot like hope littering his voice.
“Of course,” Bruce replied easily, tearing his gaze away from the art at last, looking down to Damian instead. “We have to have them, for the manor.”
Damian preened.
And suddenly all that soft pride inside Tim turned to something ugly. That glowing joy for his brother darkened, like something worse was overshadowing it. Something that felt a lot like jealousy.
Which wasn’t fair.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t be, when they all agreed they’d come tonight, which wasn’t hard. He reminded himself he wouldn’t be, on the ride over, which was only a little bit harder. And he’d thought, as he scoured over these beautiful pieces, as he had the privilege of hearing Damian’s thoughts—he’d thought it had gone away completely. That he wasn’t jealous at all. But he is. And it’s not fair to Damian, who is smiling properly and openly even though there are strangers all around them.
Damian began to explain to Bruce the process of how the exhibit works, and Tim slipped away like the rest of his siblings—except Cass and Dick, who are still quietly exchanging commentary over each of Damian’s paintings.
Tim wanders around the exhibit aimlessly, a little too glad that he doesn’t run into the others. And it’s weird, because he’s still so, so proud, when he realizes that Damian’s art has blown the rest out of the water. They're good, he supposes, but Damian has a finesse, a talent that the others just can’t seem to master. Tim is proud of him.
And he’s sad.
He finds himself on a balcony, the cold night welcoming him easily. The party, the echoes of the showcase, still beckons, but a moment to catch his breath is hard to turn down and Tim tries very hard to remember when it was that he’d stopped breathing.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out there, but when he hears the squeak of the door behind him opening, he realizes that it has certainly been too long.
“Timothy,” Damian greets.
Tim's voice is calm, thought he's more than a little surprised. "Hey, Dami."
It’s cool, that he can call Damian that now. That maybe sometimes Damian even hides a smile when he hears Tim say it.
He’s not hiding one now, though. HIs brows are furrowed, and he stalks out onto the balcony.
“You alright?” Tim asks. Damian raises a brow, clearly returning the sentiment. Neither boy speaks, and eventually Tim resumes his pose, leaning his forearms on the railing again.
“You like photography.”
Tim blinks. Of all the possible things for Damian to say, Tim hadn’t expected that to be one of them.
“Uh, I guess.” Damian crosses his arms, facing him even though Tim only glances in return.
“I know you like taking photographs,” he pushes, as if that explains anything at all. Tim huffs a half-laugh, because…well. Because some sad, selfish part of him wishes he’d never liked taking photos at all.
“I used to,” Tim corrects coolly.
“You don’t anymore?”
“Not really?”
“Why?” Damian demands. Tim furrows his brows looking him over.
“I dunno,” Tim replies mildly. “I guess I just got…busy. You’ll understand, when you’re old like me.” Usually a similar sentiment makes Damian roll his eyes, but this time, Damian barely blinks.
“Why,” he pushes, and it’s not a question anymore.
“I dunno, Dami.”
Damian seems to be waiting for him to say something. But Tim doesn’t, looking over the edge of the balcony instead.
Eventually, it’s Damian that breaks the creeping silence between them. “Your photographs are still hanging, put up all around the school. I see them all the time.” Tim looks at him at last. “There are ten of them. That is more than any one student has ever had showcased. Your photography is, legally, record-breaking.” Something in Tim tightens, the way it always does when he thinks about this for too long.
“So?”
“You must have had exhibits,” Damian continues, ignoring him entirely. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“What, you want the year?”
“How old were you?” Damian corrects. Tim sighs.
“Uh…” He trails off, trying to remember exact dates, even though Damian hadn’t been asking. “I was nine, during the first one.”
“Until?”
“I stopped when I was thirteen.”
“And?” Damian pushes. Tim doesn’t know what he’s asking for. That’s it. He was thirteen when he put the camera down. “They have two exhibits a year. That is a total of nine, maybe ten, events. Based on the ten photos around the school, I would put a firm estimate on the latter.” Damian counts aloud. Tim nods slowly, trying to follow along. “And you knew Father starting at age twelve, yes?”
“Yes,” Tim grits out. This conversation has been off-putting from the start. But now it’s making his chest hurt, his shoulders tighten. It feels like he’s preparing for battle.
“Why is your work not displayed around the manor?”
Tim blinks, face turning out toward the rail again, away from Damian’s confused face. It’s not an interrogation, Tim realizes. It’s genuine curiosity, confusion. He is looking for the answer to a puzzle he can’t solve.
“My original theory was that Father did not entertain these events,” Damian admits, “but after speaking with Richard weeks ago in a moment of—uncertainty,” Tim can picture Damian shyly asking Dick to come to the exhibit and wondering if he should ask Bruce, too. “I was informed that he attended gymnastic events for Richard and school theatrics for Todd. He would even go to multiple showings. Which seems ridiculous to me.” Tim nods. That sounds like Bruce. “So, I then theorized that he simply did not appreciate nor hang outside art, or perhaps work created by those that are not yet at a mastery level.”
“You’re at a mastery level,” Tim interrupts, a reassurance he hadn’t even meant to say.
“So are you,” Damian waves him off, like neither sentence meant anything. Like Tim hadn’t been waiting to hear that for his whole life. There must be something showing in his face, though, because Damian scowls. “Oh, please, Timothy. You know this already. Your work has been regarded in this school for longer than any other student. It has won several awards.” Damian pauses, looking down, face scrunched. “But Father is already picking out frames for my artwork. So, I don’t understand,” Damian admits at last. When he speaks again, it’s younger, and Tim knows they’ve reached the end of his possibly practiced speech. His voice is softer, as if talking to himself, and he doesn’t monitor his words nearly as much. “I don’t get it. Anyone who sees your photographs wants to have them, to hang them. Myself included. But they’re not even displayed in your room! You don’t take pictures anymore. You don’t even reach for the camera when you are on a stakeout. You always let whoever you’re partnered with take any incriminating photos.”
“Stalker,” Tim mutters, more than a little annoyed at how easily he’s been seen through. Damian just glares at him.
“I give up. I don’t get it. Explain it to me. Why aren’t your photographs displayed around the manor?”
This hurts the most out of anything, because when Damian admits he needs help, you help. It’s the rules. Because what if he asks, and no-one helps, and next time he doesn’t ask at all? So when Damian asks for help understanding, Tim has to help him understand.
But there’s a problem with this, because—“I don’t know.” It’s a hard admission. “I don’t know.” His voice is soft, a self-depreciating joke hidden somewhere in there.
Why isn’t his work displayed around the manor?
He doesn’t know.
Tim wants to say it’s because it’s not very good. But there’s statistical, physical proof that that’s not true. Tim wants to say it’s because Bruce had never seen it, but Tim knows for a fact he has, because with every invitation Tim extended he would attach a photo of one of the pieces he’d be entering. He did the same with his parents’ invitations. He’d thought of it like a ‘where’s waldo’ kind of situation. As if the people holding the invitations would come just to spot in real life the one they’d been given. Tim wants to say it’s because he’s never offered. Like, maybe, if Tim suggested it now, Bruce would swoop him up and agree and buy him a frame like Damian, and admit he’d been too nervous to ask. But now Bruce has offered it himself, unprompted, and there’s really only one real solution left.
Tim doesn’t want to say it. Especially not to Damian. But the words tumble from his lips too fast to be caught.
“It’s like you always used to say, Dami. You’re the blood son.”
“Blood has nothing to do with family, Timothy,” Damian replies haughtily. Tim thinks of the relationship Bruce has with Dick, and Jason, and Cass, and Steph, and Duke. He knows blood has nothing to do with it.
That’s why he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it. Is he not a part of this weirdo, stitched together, patchwork family? Is he not in the family portrait that gets updated every year to include each new member?
Is Tim the punchline in a joke he can’t see yet?
“Well,” Tim amends, “you’re his son.”
“You are, too,” Damian replies, confusion painting his voice.
“I guess,” Tim says. “But it’s just different, Damian. It always has been.”
And oh boy he should not have said that because Damian seems to have a whole new slew of questions.
“How so?” Damian demands. Tim shrugs. He stares out at the courtyard, only a few short floors below them. If he jumped he could totally make it, land it perfectly. And, bonus, he would get out of this conversation. “He…He went to your exhibits, yes?”
Tim looks down at that courtyard, and wonders how many of Damian’s questions he’d be answering by trying to avoid them.
“Did you invite him?” Damian asks, but his voice sounds smaller, more scared. Tim looks at him, checking him over for injuries out of habit. He doesn’t dive off the balcony. He doesn’t answer the question. But Damian seems to know the answer anyway. “And he didn’t come?”
Tim closes his eyes, more embarrassed than he means to be. He sighs.
“That’s not—that’s not right,” Damian decides, shaking his head rapidly. “He hasn’t seen them! We must rectify this immediately—” Tim lightly grabs his wrist, gentle as he can be while stopping him.
“He has, Dami. I’ve shown him.”
“When?” Damian demands.
“Every exhibit, I’d,” Tim swallows, shame lumping at the back of his throat. “I’d attach a copy of my favorite piece to his invitation.” He chuckles, self-conscious at the memory, dropping Damian’s wrist. “It was dumb.”
“It wasn’t dumb,” Damian’s voice is something soft, reassuring and gentle in a way that Tim has only heard him use on his cat when no-one is around. “I don’t understand.”
Objectively, Tim knows the man was grieving. He knows Bruce saw a boy in his dead son’s colors and was afraid of growing attached. He knows Bruce would stare at the invitation for a long time, like he was holding a memory, and at the very least promise to try to make it. He knows Bruce was trying to be kind as he lied for the first three of Tim’s missed exhibits.
He knows that on the fourth one, the final one, Tim found his invitation, and the attached picture, wrinkled and in the trash, not an hour after Bruce had sworn he’d check his schedule.
He doesn’t know why Bruce never asked again, after he’d had more healing and time to deal with his grief. He doesn’t know why Bruce never apologized for not coming, years later, now that the family is possibly as happy as they’ll ever be. He doesn’t know why Bruce jumping up and smiling and hugging Damian as he white-fisted his invitation and promising to be there before Damian had even said the date, had made his lungs feel like they were on fire.
“Neither do I,” Tim replies at last.
Silence stretches. Damian’s hands are behind his back. Tim wonders if he’s tangling his fingers again.
“I want to see them,” Damian decides eventually, voice back to its usual stern demeanor.
“See what?”
“Your photographs. I would like to see them.” Tim huffs a surprised laugh.
“Sorry, Dames. Can’t,” Tim replies, still smiling a little though he can’t fathom why.
“I demand—”
“They’re gone,” Tim cuts him off. “I threw them out.” Damian looks so hurt at the thought of this that Tim wants to go digging through the trash to find them. “I only had a couple left when I moved into the manor, anyway. I figured it wasn’t really worth packing them up.”
“What about the rest?” Damian asks, sounding desperate. Tim could swear he doesn’t usually sound or look this expressive. “You said you only had a couple left—where did the rest of them go?”
He’d thrown out almost every single photo when he found his invitation in the trash.
He’d kept the Robin ones, though. But then Jason returned, and when Tim could walk again, he threw out most of those, too.
He had a few photos he’d prized too much to throw out in his defeat, though. And that’s what it was, wasn't it? Both times, just...utter defeat. Disappointment in the heroes he’d grown up worshipping, failure in himself. Moments piling up of his apparently inability to make the people he loved, love him back.
He had a few, much less skilled pictures of Dick as Robin, from way back when Tim had first begun taking photos. He had a few of his parents, a couple of his house, one of Mrs. Mac. He’d kept those, alongside a rare few of Jason’s that survived his original devastation.
And then his parents died.
They’d never gone to one of his exhibits, either. Always promised they’d try.
When he packed up his whole life, what was left of his photos stayed behind, thrown like the trash everyone else seemed to think they were.
Tim wishes now he’d kept them. Not a lot, not all of them. At least one of Jason, and Dick. Of his parents. Mrs. Mac is gone now, and he would have liked to have kept the one of her. And his skyline photos, oh, how he remembers photographing buildings that are gone now…
“Photos are like these moments, these memories, coming to life,” Tim murmurs to himself. “I always liked to pretend I was a superhero. I couldn’t fight the bad guys, like Robin. But I could freeze time itself. Pretty cool power, I thought.”
“But you were Robin,” Damian points out, and Tim flinches, because he’d genuinely forgotten the boy was there.
“I guess,” Tim replies.
“...Why did you stop taking photographs?”
Tim is not going to tell him about the invitation in the trash. That couldn’t be tortured out of him. In no world would he let Damian think there was a chance of one of his exhibit invites being thrown away.
So Tim shrugs. “I just got busy.”
Damian glares at him. But it’s the only answer he’d get.
“You’re not busy now,” Damian points out, and Tim can see where this is going.
“I’m always busy,” Tim counters with a half-forced laugh, booping him on the nose as he all but runs from the balcony. “Now, I’m off to go see if I can steal one of your paintings before Bruce hogs them all. You coming or what?”
Damian comes. They don’t talk about photography again. Tim thinks that this is the end of it.
It’s not.