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The duckling is doing much better now, Damian thinks as he watches the tiny bird root around the cardboard box. Knees drawn to his chest, the youngest of the Wayne family rests his chin upon them and lets out an unconscious sigh. The paper and pencils with which he had been sketching the baby bird had been set aside a while ago, but he’s proud of the drawing.
“It seems almost sacrilegious to call you anything other than ‘Timothy,’ Damian mutters to the bird, amused.
Timothy, fluffy and gorgeous, was trapped in a drain when Damian found him outside Gotham Academy on an overcast afternoon. Though he had hunted for the baby duck’s parents for a good thirty minutes, running himself late for Alfred, he had eventually concluded that the parents had left the poor thing behind.
Newly dubbed ‘Timothy’ ignores him, preferring the moistened mixture of food and water Damian has provided.
“Perhaps,” Damian continues, unfurling his legs until they lay prone with the carpet, his back pressed up against the solid bed frame. “That is a secret we can keep between just the two of us, hm?”
Gingerly, he reaches out a finger and begins to stroke the bird. When Timothy doesn’t protest Damian tries with his whole hand. It melts his heart how trusting the duckling is, leaning into the warmth of his palm.
“You are not very much like your namesake,” he comments aloud, running a thumb over soft feathers. “Although, I made… mistakes when I first met Drake, if I am to be honest with you.”
Cupping the bird in one hand and drawing him out of the box, Damian brings him close to his chest.
With a full belly, it seems Timothy is exhausted from his ordeal. Nestled in Damian’s palm, he is content to close his eyes and allow himself to be pet.
“Admittedly,” Damian goes on, furrowing his brow as he watches his newest charge begin to doze off. “Drake and I have more in common than not, but I do not know how to approach him. For all our similar interests, I feel he would become immediately suspicious if I were to begin conversations on such topics.”
There’s a brief moment where Damian thinks he hears footsteps on the runner in the hall. But, after a lingering pause of silence in which Timothy’s breathing evens out, he concludes it must have been Alfred passing.
“We are… awkward around each other,” he says as he tips his head back, speaking more to the room than to the duckling in his hand. “Drake continues to be wary of me, though I have tried to work toward reconciliation with him. I worry that we shall never move past this. I worry that Father and Richard blame me for the divide in our family. Drake can be melodramatic, without question, but what do I do if he never forgives me for the past?”
The stark white ceiling provides no answers, but the mattress beneath his head is comfy. Like Timothy, Damian closes his eyes and feels a bone-deep exhaustion wash over him.
“In the past I was… perhaps cruel to him,” he sighs. “I said… I spoke rudely and with the intent to hurt. I was too effective in what I set out to do and now I have no recourse to reconcile.”
Lifting his head and allowing his eyes to flutter open, Damian tentatively scoots along the carpet until he is easily able to place the duckling back inside the cardboard box. Timothy nestles down into the soft bedding of fine wood shavings and grass without so much as a cursory glance up at him.
“How do I apologize for that, Timothy?” he asks hopelessly, staring down at the sleeping bird. “What is the correct course of action? I fear I have tried everything and nothing has worked.”
Unexpectedly, there comes a knock at the door.
While the noise doesn’t so much as wake the baby duckling, Damian jumps ever-so-slightly at the soft rap on wood.
Quick to compose himself, Damian straightens his clothes and clears his throat before granting permission of entry. How very unlike him, to be caught unawares.
“You may enter,” he calls, expecting to be his father, or more likely, Pennyworth.
Damian is immeasurably surprised when it turns out to be neither.
“Hey,” Drake greets, shooting him an awkward, lopsided smile.
Damian feels the blood drain from his face. Had Drake heard him speaking to Timothy? There’s too much tension in Drake’s shoulders for Damian to believe he got lucky and he heard nothing at all.
“Heard my name,” the older boy says by way of explanation. “Kind of wondered what you were doing in— is that a duck?”
Shoulders hiking up to his ears, Damian inwardly cringes with embarrassment as his cheeks flush hotly. There’s really no lie he can procure that will be less embarrassing than the truth.
Drake plonks himself straight down on Damian’s bedroom floor without so much as a second glance in his direction, gaze fixed firmly on the snoozing bird.
“I found him in a drain,” he mutters defensively.
Drake lifts his gaze then. Surprisingly, there’s a small smile on his lips.
“He’s cute,” Drake comments, the bird drawing his eyes again. “Very cute. I can see why you wanted to draw him.”
Drake gestures to the open pad, still open on the floor with Damian’s sketch.
“Pennyworth says we will need to hand him over to a sanctuary or shelter,” he says, unhappily. “I… I wanted something to remember him by.”
Drake hums. “When I was your age, I used to take pictures for the same reason.”
It once again strikes him, then, how similar they are. For a moment, Damian finds his stare stuck on Drake’s face. The shifts of amused or adoring expression caused by the slumbering duckling.
“I named him Timothy,” he blurts out.
That catches Drake’s attention.
He looks up, surprise blooming across his face.
“Because, well, you know. You’re Drake and he’s… a duck,” Damian finishes, a little lamely, feeling the flush climb to his ears.
“I’m… honored,” he says, a hint of confusion reflected in his tone. “I think.”
It’s impossible to stop the way Damian’s lips twist into the tiniest smile.
Drake looks as though, for a moment, he doesn’t know what to make of it.
They both lapse into silence, watching the sleeping bird for no other reason than to not look at each other.
Then, wordlessly, Drake stands up. Crossing the room, his fingers curl around Damian’s door, left ajar.
That’s that then , Damian thinks, a little sadly as Drake reaches the threshold. Another interaction with no meaning, nothing to show for his efforts.
Desperately, he searches for something to say. Anything to confirm that they can do this again. Just talk.
Drake beats him to the punch.
“Listen,” he says, back still turned. “I don’t know if you’d be interested, but… uh.” A palm comes up and rubs the back of his neck in a distinctly Bruce fashion. “If you’re interested in sketching birds, maybe you’d like to visit the national park with me, next time I go?”
Damian’s ears prick at the offer.
His mouth opens once, then closes. He swallows nervously before opening it again.
“Yes,” he croaks stiffly. “I would. Like that… Timothy.”
Drake turns to face him then. That small smile is back, Damian notes.
“Alright then,” he agrees. “And, Damian?"
“Hm?”
“The next baby duck? We’re naming it after you.”