Chapter Text
It will be years later when Tim Drake realizes how far his older brother veered the course of his supposed fate; how his life could've arguably been a little worse, a little more unfortunate. A lot more lacking.
But for now, at three years old, Tim is attending Haly’s Circus with his family, and he doesn't think of the world of his brother yet. For now, his older brother is being a smartass, and Tim is at the receiving end of his brother's personality.
Tim knows what the word ‘smartass’ means, by the way. He’s heard how his dad would use it, muttering it contemptuously under his breath after a particularly vexing phone call. Tim can put context clues together.
Smartass (probably) refers to people who are smart in a bad way; those who use their intelligence to push other people’s buttons. Unfortunately, Neal Drake knows Tim’s buttons and labels them accordingly: curiosity and intrigue.
Neal is not exactly… mean about it. Tim just finds Neal’s overall secrecy infuriating, the way he'd find not reaching a high shelf frustrating. He hates the illusion of something being attainable when it’s not.
“You can only watch one of us,” his older brother reminds him, almost tauntingly, as Tim openly scowls at the totally unfair offer.
“Why not now?” Tim does not whine, but Neal smiles as if he did.
“Then, that wouldn't make my magic trick special anymore,” Neal says, gray eyes crinkling with mischief. “Think of this as your first lesson in risk-reward ratio.”
Tim doesn't understand what those last three words mean together; not really. Still, he pretends he does, if only to not add on the list of things Neal could possibly hold against him.
He only has the circus’ remaining intermission time to decide.
The dilemma to little Tim is this:
Neal would perform a once-in-a-lifetime trick at the same time the Flying Graysons would start their act. Neal said he will only perform this trick outside the tent, on that specific timeframe, and never again. No explanation as to why, because Neal likes being mysterious; Tim thinks Neal is just being confusing.
On one hand, Tim’s a big fan of the Flying Graysons, and they're basically the main reason why his family is attending the circus at all. It's not everyday this specific circus stops by in Gotham of all cities.
However, Tim also knows that there will be bound to be videos featuring the acrobats later with how famous they are. They are the main attraction, after all. Tim can always watch those; it’s how he became their fan in the first place. True, their digital images are nothing compared to the real thing, and it defeats the purpose of attending the circus at all, but, well, Tim is a patient boy.
He can always wait for their next performance.
Neal, on the other hand…
Neal may be difficult, but in other ways, simple too.
The thing about Tim’s older brother is that he doesn't exaggerate the way children do when they’re overwhelmed by emotions they can't exactly word out. Yes, Neal’s only three years older, but he doesn't childishly say “it's been forever”, or “it's the best thing ever”, or “it's just impossible”. If he does, he's either being sarcastic or just telling a fact.
Neal is… precise that way. Truthful. Tim likes the predictability of it.
So when Neal tells Tim that “this secret trick is once-in-a-lifetime”, and that “you won't regret it”, all wrapped together with “I promise”, chances are: he's not lying. Because Neal is many things, but he is not a liar.
At least, not to Tim.
Besides, Tim is a curious, curious boy. He has to know what his brother would show him.
And if the trick is not worth missing the Flying Graysons, well… Telling on his brother to Mom and Dad is always an option.
“Everyone, please return to your seats! The intermission will end in a minute!” The surrounding speakers announce, with the audience already beelining for their seats after buying more snacks— their parents being part of this crowd— or coming back from a bathroom break. Neal uses the latter as an excuse to their parents to leave the tent.
“You should have gone earlier, Nathaniel,” Mom lightly chastises him for it, as she hands Tim a warm bag of popcorn— cheese-flavored; the cheap, orange kind that Tim likes.
Instead of replying, Neal makes a show of giving her a sheepish grin: all performance and no shame. Dad doesn’t say anything, and it’s taken as silent permission.
Then, Neal looks at him, his grin softening into something genuine.
“Hey Tim, you coming?” Neal tilts his head towards the exit, his eyes expectant.
“Uh!” Tim stands, carefully placing his popcorn upright on his seat. “Y-yeah, I’ll go!”
“Timothy?” Mom says, surprised. “The Graysons are next. I thought you wouldn't want to miss a single moment.”
“It’s fine,” Neal tells her, before Tim could even open his mouth. “We’ll be back before their main act.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, presenting what you’ve all been waiting for!” As if on cue, the tent lights dim, and a single spotlight shines on three figures approaching the middle of the stage, waving to the cheering crowd. “The Flying Graysons!”
Tim feels a tug on his hand, his brother already pulling him towards the tent’s exit.
“Hurry back!” Mom’s voice barely reaches them from the crowd’s excitement.
Before the sight of the stage completely disappears from his view, Tim manages to catch a glimpse of the three acrobats preparing to climb their respective pillars to reach their trapeze.
Once outside, the cold night air tickles Tim’s nose and cheeks, his sensitive skin reeling from the loss of the warm humidity within the crowded tent. The audience’s noises are noticeably muffled; the carnival lights strung around lampposts are dimmer compared to the showlights but no less colorful. Tim didn’t realize how overstimulating it was inside.
Even still, he’s antsy to return just to watch the Flying Graysons.
But Neal keeps walking, keeps leading, his hand never letting go of Tim’s. They go further out, even passing the bathroom stalls, just until they reach the surrounding woods’ treeline, not too far from the main tent.
Finally, Neal lets go, and Tim’s curiosity reels enough of his impatience in to pay rapt attention.
“Okay, ready?” Neal asks, before kneeling on the dirt, uncaring if it would stain his pressed pants. Not waiting for Tim’s response, he proceeds to perform a series of hand signs too quick for Tim’s eyes to follow, before slamming a hand on the ground that produces a puff of white smoke that briefly obscures Tim’s sight before clearing.
“Woah!” Tim yelps both in surprise and in awe, when a white owl is suddenly perched on his brother's outstretched arm, its talons crinkling his white dress shirt’s sleeve.
“This is a barn owl. She’s only a year old; the youngest of my parliament that can fly and—” Neal continues to drone on, but Tim doesn’t pay much attention; doesn’t even wonder how his brother performed the small special effect— too distracted by how pretty the bird is, how still it is on Neal’s arm apart from the occasional head tilts.
“Where you got it from?” Tim asks, his hand unsure if it should behave or reach out to pet the owl. Instead, he just shuffles his feet a little closer to Neal’s direction to be a little closer to the bird.
“Where did you get her from,” Neal corrects him only once, before moving on to answer his question. “I suppose… She just followed me around, and after a while, I chose to train her.”
Then, Neal reaches a hand to grab Tim’s arm and guide it to imitate the way he's holding the owl. To Tim’s credit, he stays unmoving even when Neal lets the owl transfer onto his arm.
“Now, she follows you,” Neal says, his hand still supporting Tim’s appendage that’s now holding the surprisingly light bird. His polo shirt doesn’t have long sleeves, so Tim tries to ignore the gentle pressure of claws on his bare skin.
“Is she my pet now?” Tim asks, his eyes trailing over the seemingly ethereal avian in wonder. The owl makes a sharp click with her beak, as if offended, and Tim’s arm would’ve flinched away if Neal wasn’t keeping it steady.
“Uh, not exactly. More of a guardian.” Neal looks at the owl, eyes narrowed, his smile tight. A wordless reprimand. The owl only ruffles her feathers, as if daring Neal to do something about it.
“How?” Tim wonders how a small animal could guard him.
“If there's danger, she’ll lead you to safety.” Neal’s look softens for him, before his tone shifts just a bit more earnest, a bit more pleading, his smile brittle. “She can hear danger before you can see it. So, if she urges you to run, you listen, okay? No matter what. Promise?”
Tim isn’t dumb, so it doesn’t take much for him to agree with a simple, “okay. Promise.”
A heavy exhale escapes from Neal, and Tim thinks it’s out of relief. Far into the future, he discovers it’s out of resignation.
“That’s… alright. Okay.” Neal pauses, before looking back at the owl. “What do you wanna name her?”
“I can name her?!” Tim excitedly exclaims, mindful not to jostle the bird.
“Well, she doesn’t have a name yet,” Neal coaxes him indulgently, then adding, “you can pet her, by the way. She doesn’t bite.”
At the given permission, Tim’s hand hesitantly reaches to soothe the owl’s back. Neal says she doesn't bite; he always tells the truth, but Tim can't help but feel judged by the owl’s uncanny brown eyes that seem a bit too knowing. However, all apprehension disappears when his palm meets smooth feathers and nothing happens.
Soft, Tim thinks, awed. Then, when he takes a proper look at the bird that isn't mindless admiration, he realizes how much the owl resembles his brother.
Feeling mischievous, Tim impishly says, “I’ll name her Miss Neal Junior.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Neal immediately shoots down in theatrical disgust, with the owl screeching in equal disapproval, and Tim can’t help but openly laugh at their similar reactions.
“You two are so the same!” Then, he points out, “Also, her feathers are white, and your hair is white too!”
And it’s a pretty white! Mom calls Neal’s hair platinum blonde, but Tim is convinced that it’s white— like marshmallow white, or like the clouds he sees on his morning weekend cartoons. Dad says it’s colored like old-man hair, and Neal doesn’t say much about his own hair at all.
Still, Tim can tell Neal takes good care of it— always combed, always shiny.
“But that’s about it. It’s not like I have big eyes too, do I?” Neal teases, using his free hand to affectionately pinch Tim’s nose.
Tim cheekily grins, and his reply comes off nasally, “the biggest!”
Neal huffs out a small laugh, finally removing his fingers from Tim’s nosebridge. Then, he redirects it to brush away a stray hair strand from Tim’s face, before overall moving his hand away.
“Thought of a real name yet?” Neal asks with a patient smile.
Underneath the cloudy moonlight, away from people, cloaked in the quiet, Tim notices how this all feels like a secret— one of Neal’s secrets. And with Tim now being a part of it, it makes him feel giddy. Included. Something just between him and his brother, where Neal has never felt so close before. So reachable.
Within this moment, Neal doesn’t feel like an illusion to Tim anymore.
“Haly’s a girl name,” Tim says after a short pause, thoughtful. “It fits. I met her here, in the circus.”
“Okay, Haly it is,” Neal confirms, and it’s only then Tim realizes that Neal is no longer helping to support his arm that’s carrying Haly. Since when did Neal let Tim carry Haly on his own? “Just don’t let our parents know about her, yeah?”
“Our secret,” Tim agrees, now thinking of ways on how to buy the best owl treats without Mom or Dad noticing. His not-pet only deserves the best if Tim wants to keep her around, after all.
In the entire experience, Tim temporarily forgets about the Flying Graysons, only reminded about them when Haly tilts her head towards the main tent, as if waiting, expecting something. Tim follows her line of sight.
There’s a quiet lull in the air, as if the world is holding its breath.
Tim blinks once.
Haly hoots twice.
Then, screaming.
Tim startles when people suddenly pour out from the exit, loud and unintelligible in their distressed chaos. He can barely pick up any words from the cacophony of panic, but he manages to stay unmoved, grounded by Haly’s weight on his arm.
Finally, he tears his eyes away from the crowd, looking worriedly at Neal for guidance.
“Ah, Haly has to hide now,” Neal says, unbothered by the commotion, his smile never faltering. “Our parents can’t see her with us.”
At the indirect instruction, Haly flies into the woods, the tree leaves and darkness obscuring her from sight. His arm mourns the loss of her weight, but despite not seeing a glimpse of Haly’s white feather, Tim just knows she’s still there. Just waiting nearby. Watching. Listening.
“C’mon, Tim.” Neal stretches a hand towards him. “Let’s find our parents.”
Tim doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but if Neal isn’t scared, then Tim supposes he has no reason to be either.
Tim does not hesitate to grab his brother’s hand, and lets his mind wonder if there’s a toy in his room that can be given to Haly.